


What the Deep Heart Means

by unpossible



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Character Death Fix, Clint Has Issues, Clint Needs a Hug, Clint-centric, Gen, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Movie Spoilers, Podfic Available, Podfic Welcome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-29
Updated: 2013-10-02
Packaged: 2017-12-24 23:28:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 29
Words: 54,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/945951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unpossible/pseuds/unpossible
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint doesn’t want to go out. Doesn’t want to make conversation, doesn’t even want to eat. But he can’t show any of that, not if he doesn’t want to be rendered inactive by the psychs. Being useful is all he has left. </p><p>What he does want, mostly, is to be taken out back like Old Yeller. But that isn’t an option. He doesn’t get the easy way out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bereft

**Author's Note:**

> In case the summary isn't enough of a hint, Clint has some Dark Thoughts in the initial stages of this fic. If this is a potential trigger for you, please beware. There is no explicit self-harm, but the mood is there.

 

 

Clint doesn’t expect his life to fall completely apart on a random Tuesday morning. Not for the usual reasons, the way normal people forget that bad shit can happen to them. No, instead he’d been pretty confident his life was already as fucked up as it could get. There hadn’t seemed space for any _more_ , that’s all.

Forget the abandoned and abused shit from his childhood and adolescence. He wasn’t the only one with that particular sob story. And falling in love with someone unattainable, well, that was common enough.

Being mind-raped by an alien god? Yeah. Clint thought maybe he deserved some sympathy points for that. Coming out of that control to find he’d attacked his own organisation and killed a bunch of colleagues? Again – not your ordinary complaint.

And then there was that last thing. The one Clint couldn’t begin to think about.

So, all up, he felt he was a pretty special kind of messed up already. Which is why he went along with Tony fucking Stark, of all people, when the guy threw out a casual invitation one Tuesday morning. It seemed so harmless.

“Want to join me and Cap for lunch?”

Clint glances up from the freeweight he’s been lifting and raises a brow. They live in the same building and therefore, eat lunch together most of the time without needing to make an appointment.

“We’re going out,” Tony clarifies

Clint hesitates. He doesn’t want to go out. Doesn’t want to make conversation, doesn’t even want to eat. But he can’t show any of that, not if he doesn’t want to be rendered inactive by the psychs. Being useful is all he has left.

What he does want, mostly, is to be taken out back like Old Yeller. But that isn’t an option. He doesn’t get the easy way out.

“Sure,” he says after a moment, and goes back to the rhythmic curl, eyes on the weight.

“Great,” Stark says lightly. “Banner’s off doing something scienc-y about opening the bifrost again, so he’s a wash. Bring our friendly neighbourhood spider if you can find her.”

Clint manages the ghost of a smile, knowing Stark expects it. The entire team has accepted Clint’s reserve, his aloof attitude and his avoidance of physical contact. He suspects the team had been given a crash course in PTSD in the three week period when Clint had been in secure custody aboard the Helicarrier. Of course, in this team, at least it isn’t only Clint carrying the issues.

So in return for them not bothering the shit out of him to talk about his feelings, Clint has put some real effort into faking a slow climb back to normalcy. He plans it carefully.

First, there was a slow unclenching of his body language over the first few weeks after he’d moved in. Over this past month he’s started offering small smiles carefully doled out every few days. He attends every Psych session Chandler - the deuche-bag handler Fury has stuck them with - schedules for him. When the team has finished a mission, Clint lets Medical check him over without complaint.

Sometimes he feels sure Natasha has seen through his bullshit, but the others don’t know him well enough to spot a fake, and lately Tasha is constantly being dragged off to deal with the cleanup of a long-term solo op she’d been running in _Estonia,_ of all places.

She’s only been back two days from her latest trip, and Chandler takes up way too much of her time debriefing, trying to find a way in, Clint suspects. Chandler doesn’t have a hope of handling any _one_ of the Avengers, let alone the whole team, but he sure keeps trying.

“I’ll ask,” Clint says without looking up. “Time?”

“Noonish,” Stark says from the doorway and Clint nods. The door closes and Clint lets out a careful, slow breath in rhythm with his arms, but gives no other sign of his frustration. It helps, in a twisted way, to know that Jarvis is constantly watching. It means he has no letup from this pretence of recovery.

It’s oddly like working undercover, and that, Clint can do.

 

 

 

 

 

Stark’s restaurant is unremarkable, which should have pinged Clint’s radar. Would have, if he’d been giving a fuck about anything at all beyond putting one foot in front of the other and looking like he wasn’t half-mad with grief and guilt. Tasha glances around them as they file inside, her brow crinkling.

“Why are we here, Stark?” she asks, her voice its usual low timbre.

“To partake of the cuisine, naturally,” Stark says, but he sounds distracted. “They have private dining rooms in the back for working lunches, I thought we’d try dining without an audience.”

Tasha narrows her eyes at him, but Steve says, “Great,” sounding relieved.

Steve has taken most 21st century changes in his stride, but the narrowing of personal privacy and what he considers basic courtesy is an ongoing struggle for him. Case in point: he _hates_ being approached for autographs and pictures when he’s eating, but he grits his teeth and smiles, every time. Whenever Clint sees it he can spot the shallow showman the US Army tried to mould him into, taking one for the team, and then it’s like being stabbed, thinking about Captain America and war bonds and collector cards-

Clint focuses his gaze on the vertical garden of herbs on the far wall and breathes carefully, evenly, knowing Tasha is in the room which means he has to lift his I’m-fine-no- _really-_ I’m _-fine_ game.

Tony smiles his usual public smile for the staff and after only a few seconds delay they’re being ushered around a corner and down a long corridor. Clint maps out the layout in his head from habit more than anything else – behind the long expanse of wall to their left is likely the kitchen. On their right they pass the bathrooms and then the waitress pauses, swipes a card over a security pad. The timber door swings inward automatically – good for a waitress with her hands full, Clint guesses – and she gestures them into the room.

It’s big enough to seat eight or so, and they file inside obediently, though Clint notes that Tony doesn’t head for the table the way Steve does. That has Clint hesitating, then, eyes flicking to Tasha, who pauses just inside the door and watches Stark like a mongoose and a snake.

“Give us a minute, would you?” Tony says, all teeth.

The waitress smiles back and shuffles into the corridor, closing the door behind her.

“You know...” Tony begins.

“Why are we here, Stark?” Tasha asks, voice sharpening.

“...I think I’d prefer the other room, personally. There’s something lacking in the ambience here.”

“What?” Steve asks, nonplussed. He pauses in the act of pulling out a chair – probably for Natasha – and finally seems to sense something odd. “Tony?”

Stark shrugs. “I just want to try the other room.”

“Stark,” Tasha starts, but he’s sauntering into the corridor like he owns the joint. Hazards of being a billionaire, Clint guesses. She’s on his heels, frowning, but when she shoots a glance at Clint he shrugs. Stark hasn’t really done anything requiring intervention... yet.

“It’s occupied,” Clint offers when they get to the next door. He hadn’t paid much attention to their own room but there’s a discreet red light to the side of the security pad that can only mean one thing.

“You sure?” Stark asks, smirking, and casually swings his phone over the red display which, naturally, immediately switches to green.

“Stark-”

“Tony!”

Tasha and Steve’s voices snap off like they’ve been punched in the throat as the door finishes its inward arc and the two inhabitants of the room are revealed.

Nick Fury.

Phil Coulson.

Clint blinks.

Coulson. _Phil_ _Coulson_.

Tasha curses, low and vicious and Russian.

Tony blinks and says, “Huh. Okay. That- this I did _not_ expect. _Agent?_ ”

Clint blinks hard, but what he’s seeing doesn’t change, not even the unfinished plate of ravioli – Coulson’s favourite – pushed to one side.

Beside Clint, Steve mutters something low and bulls forward, getting all four of them into the room and quickly dragging the door closed behind them. Good soldier Steve, always aware of security issues.

Coulson – Phil fucking _Coulson_ – flattens his hand on the table, preparation for standing. Beneath his fingers are maps, field reports and satellite photographs. Business as usual, apparently, despite his being _three fucking months dead_. His eyes are locked on Clint’s and just before Clint’s knees give out completely he feels Tasha’s arm press against his. He sags back instead, shoulders hitting the wall and keeping him upright.

Fury, meantime, lets out a slow breath and turns in his seat. His eyes are watchful and wary. “Some day, Stark,” he says darkly, “ _Some_ day you’re going to finally realize that the entire fucking world does not revolve around you.”

“Huh. Yeah, you know I doubt it,” Tony shoots back.

“Tony,” Steve says, low and chiding. He’s looking from Clint to Tasha and back to – Coulson. _Coulson._

“What?” Stark says, defensive, then he follows Cap’s gaze and his mouth snaps shut.

 

 

 


	2. Ruin

 

 

Tony watches Barton’s face. It’s been more like a death mask, ever since Loki. Not that Tony knew the archer before. He’d hacked all the Loki-relevant stuff back before the battle, of course.

But before he brought Barton into the Tower, Tony made sure to watch other footage – what there was.  He’s seen Clint and Tasha in training sims together, enjoyed his commentary during Thor’s New Mexico invasion, even watched some security feeds from the range. The agent never missed a target while heckling Coulson, Sitwell and Hill nonstop.

The guy in those videos? He’d had a sense of humour. More than one facial expression. He’d had _heart_.

And now. Well. He’s suddenly human again, all right, but so fucking vulnerable it kind of hurts to watch. Barton’s staring at Agent Coulson like – well, like a ghost, which: fair. But it’s what comes next that hurts like a knee to the balls, even for someone like Tony, who’s on the outside looking in.

Barton’s eyes drift from Coulson’s frozen face to Fury. The shock and disbelief is fading, but it’s not replaced by anger. Nope. Instead, Barton looks Fury’s way and it’s instant comprehension, like that moment of invention Tony knows so well, that second where – Jarvis comes online for the first time – a new element sparks to life – an arc reactor engineered in a cave lights up.

Barton looks from Coulson to Fury, and he just _gets it_.

Barton’s eyes drop to the floor, just one beat of time where the guy tries to gather all his broken little pieces into a bundle. His mouth firms, twitches in a bitter half-smile as if to say, _well, of course_. He even nods, once only. _Of course_ his handler agreed to fake his death and lie about it – of fucking _course_ Clint wouldn’t be let in on the secret.

On that thought Tony’s eyes cut sharply to Romanoff. She clearly wasn’t in on this either, or she’d have found a way to keep them away from this restaurant, this room. He’s pretty sure the Widow knows that Tony’s paranoia about the World Security Council – _who even calls themselves that?_ – and their machinations had brought them here today, to finally see what was causing Fury’s unexplained absences.

Of all the people that might have figured out about Coulson, the Widow would be Tony’s first guess. But she is staring at Coulson a lot like Barton did, chest rising and falling a little more rapidly than usual, which for her is like bursting into thick, noisy tears.

And for some reason it’s that – the thought of Romanoff crying – that brings it home for Tony. Agent is alive. Okay. Shocker, for Tony – and he’ll have to tell Pepper, _shit_ \- but not earth-shattering. But _these two?_

Coulson was their handler for years. _Ten_ years, in Barton’s case. His death had been cataclysmic for all the Avengers, but especially for the SHIELD agents. And now, to find him still alive, still working, still a part of SHIELD but not a part of their little trio-

What does that kind of betrayal do to an already damaged agent? What the fuck is this doing to the archer?

Then he looks back at Barton’s face and Tony knows _exactly_ what it’s doing.

It’s destroying him.

 

***

 

Clint is breathing. He’s still standing. Honest to God, that’s all he’s got.

His brain is slowly clunking back to life, though. _Slowly_. Fury is speaking, then Stark, it’s all just distant noise. Clint. Well - at first he’s just noticing. Details.

Coulson looks tired. Pale. Thinner than before.

Beside Clint, Tasha is utterly still. Disconnected.

So. _She didn’t know either_. That’s... something. Not much, but. It’s the only thing he has left to cling to now. She’ll process it better than Clint will, of course. Tasha’s been betrayed before.

Clint swallows again, hard, and drags his eyes away from Coulson. Because his brain is churning backwards and forwards now, burning through all the questions, and noting the answers he can gather without asking.

_Pale. Some weight loss. Still a little stiff._

The injury was bad enough to look fatal. _That_ much was real.

_They’re working on something._

Fury hasn’t given up his right hand man. Clint’s eyes flick to Fury, takes in the set, furious lines on his face and remembers the footage he’d watched of the Helicarrier’s briefing room, a defeated Stark and Rogers at an empty table. He looks down at the floor as it all plays out in his head.

_The Captain America cards, bloodstained._

Fury used whatever he had to manipulate the Avengers into working together. Clint feels his mouth attempt a mocking half-smile. He and Tash had recognized that detail as bullshit, of course. As if Coulson would carry his mint-condition cards in his jacket during a fucking _op_. But Clint let himself accept one level of manipulation and never thought to look deeper. Never thought there could be _more lies_. Or not _that_ lie, at least.

So Coulson was dangerously injured, but he survived.

And afterwards... what? Fury couldn’t risk taking it back? Didn’t want to? Or did Coulson ask to be relieved? To be able to set aside long-held burdens and responsibilities?

On that thought Clint sucks in a harsh breath and steps away from Tasha without warning. Fuck. _Fuck_. Clint’s losing it. All these months of faking a manageable level of grief and now- He takes a large step sideways. Escape and evade.

In his peripheral vision Clint sees Steve square his shoulders. “I think you have some explaining to do, Director.”

Tasha takes a threatening step toward the table and Clint slips further away.

“Barton,” Coulson says, low and firm and so achingly familiar.

Clint drags in a huge breath. _OhJesusGod_ , fucking hell, that _voice_ , saying his _name_ , Christ can this life get any more cruel?

He’s moving without thought, barges between Steve and Tony, through the door and into the corridor, escape mode and nothing else, not even Tasha, the only person he has left-

“Barton,” that voice comes again, clearer now, a little breathless – _not completely recovered yet -_ his treacherous mind worries. There are footsteps behind him, fast, and from inside the room some muffled sounds that mean Tasha is expressing herself the way she does best, in a fight. _Please let her break Fury’s nose, at the very least_.

_“Clint,”_ the voice calls.

Coulson’s voice saying Clint’s first name for the first fucking time in _years_ and the world goes white.

Clint whirls, graceful as a dancer and slams his fist into Coulson’s jaw, his form perfect, his follow-through smooth. Coulson hits the floor with a bitten off grunt and for one second Clint stands there, chest heaving, staring down at the man he- Then he staggers back.

He doesn’t know this man. The Phil Coulson he knew would _never_ -

Bile rises up in his throat – _not this too, I can’t lose this_ – and Clint turns on his heel and _runs_.

 

 


	3. Waste

 

 

He doesn’t go to the Tower. Doesn’t go to the apartment he’d kept paying for, sure that at any moment the Avengers gig would be yanked out from under him. Doesn’t go to Tasha’s boltholes – the one she showed him, or the one he found out about on his own. Clint walks, disposing of his phone in small pieces every half hour or so.

It’s been three or four hours, maybe, before he admits that while he may be a dumbass circus freak, he knows enough to know he needs a plan.

_Doesn’t help me actually come up with one, of course_ , he thinks wryly.

He stops at a cart a buys a hot dog to blend in. It takes him probably ten minutes of staring at it to choke down a few bites. He’s gone longer than this without eating, but he’s not functioning at his best right now – _shock_ , the professional part of his brain notes calmly – and his body needs the fuel.

And then, suddenly, it’s early evening. Paused on a street corner Clint stares down at his feet. He’s been walking randomly, avoiding rooftops because he knows that Coul- _SHIELD_ will expect that from him. He needs a nest, just for a while, a place to sit and think. He needs the last place anyone will look for him.

Clint takes a short, sharp breath. He swallows, then turns his feet toward SHIELD.

 

 

 

Coulson’s office had been cleared of all confidential files by the time Clint was released from the Helicarrier. He came in here once, with Tasha, as a kind of test and because he knew it would look good to the shrinks if he seemed to be dealing with things. Dr Del Rey, unfortunately, hadn’t seemed particularly impressed. Of everyone in his life right now, Clint thinks she is the closest one to calling bullshit on the con he’s been running.

It had helped and hurt to see the place completely devoid of any memories. Even the smell of stale coffee had faded away. Whoever had cleared it had left the furniture, and a cabinet full of generic paperwork that the next occupant would require, same as Coulson had. The few personal touches had been gone, too.

At the time Clint had assumed they’d gone to Coulson’s sister, but. Now he wonders. Does Coulson still have the god-awful snowglobe Clint had brought him from Minsk? _Greetings from Kiev_. It had just tickled Clint, to find something so completely out of place, and for whatever reason, Coulson had kept it.

He hears a low sound of distress, and realizes, startled, it came from him. Great. He’s officially losing it. He steps up onto the desk, shifts aside the ceiling tile and hoists himself into the duct without making a sound. He replaces the tile and crawls foward to the junction that gives him two escape routes. It’s familiar, and the comfort of it burns like acid right now. Clint closes his eyes and lets go, just for a little while.

His arms are cramped by the time he comes back to himself again. He’s been hugging himself, hard enough that his fingers have gone numb, and his face is wet. Right. This would be that breakdown the shrink was warning him was on the horizon. Right on schedule.

Clint sighs, rolls onto his back and presses his arms to the cool metal above his head, lets the pins and needles and the aches fill out the background of his thoughts.

_I can’t do this anymore_. Maybe he already knew that, but for a fucking certainty now, he _can’t_. He’s just.

Empty.

Clint blinks up at the cool flat surface above him and thinks it again _. I can’t do this anymore_. If that’s the truth, then. All his choices are already made, really.

Clint takes a deep breath. He knows what he’s going to _do_. That’s something. That’s the easy part. So he’ll do it, he’ll move his arms and legs and breathe in and out and force words out of his throat and he _will do it_. He’s been doing that for months, faking it, he can do it for another day or two, despite this new knowledge, this fucking weight in his gut, in his heart.

And once it’s done. Well. Maybe he’ll think about how the fuck to cope with the hurricane that’s whirling inside him.

 

 

 

 

 

“Vanessa,” Clint says, and manages a small, fake smile, which is the only kind he has anymore.

She stares back at him, wide-eyed from the office door, keys still in the lock. He can see the thoughts run through her head – _how did he get in here?_ – and the _duh, he’s an Agent_.

HR don’t generally see Clint much. Less than Medical, even. He only knows Vanessa because she’s a relapsed chain-smoker who regularly sneaks out to a fire escape near Clint’s favourite nest at SHIELD. First time he’d spoken to her she’d panicked, shrieked and damn near fallen seven stories to a messy death. They’d bonded over it, kinda.

“Agent Barton,” she says, very slowly, and puts her purse down on her desk, drops the bag he knows contains her lunch and the work shoes that will replace the trainers she’s currently wearing. “Um. Is there- can I help you?” She very much looks like she wants to add, _Are you lost?_

“I have some paperwork,” he says, and places the stack of papers neatly on the center of her desk. The elevator at the end of the hall dings and two sets of footsteps approach. Clint tracks them automatically as Vanessa leans in to look at the forms and then freezes. Her eyes flick from Clint to the papers to the newcomers who are gawking in the doorway and making the back of his neck itch.

“Um,” she says again. The new arrivals slowly edge inside the office, eyeing Clint like he might snap and kill them any second- and oh, _hey_ , and there’s a joke who’s time _still_ has not yet come, even inside his own head. Still too raw to be funny.

“A _T-32?_ ” Vanessa says, and even though she’d obviously tried to calm down it still comes out too loudly. “Um, I.”

The other two pause in the act of settling at their desks, looking even more startled.

_Aaaaand we’re off_ , Clint thinks, half-rueful, half resigned. They can’t make phone calls because he’s standing right here but e-mail will work just fine to start off the rumour mill. He tries to picture the email. Or text. Only two words needed, really. _Barton quit_.

“Did I miss anything?” Clint asks, utterly calm. It’s not like you can just type up a _Dear Director Fury, Fuck you very much, Sincerely, Clint Francis Barton_ letter of resignation. He’d genuinely considered it, even thought about delivering it via arrow to the door of Fury’s office. But somehow there was so much more of a _fuck you_ implied if he submitted a perfectly completed stack of those forms Coulson excelled at. ( _Had_ excelled at. _Before_. When he was Clint’s handler.) He draws in a careful breath and lists the forms he’d spent the night completing, curled up in the vents of SHIELD. “Separation, Payroll and Benefits, Medical, Security.”

Vanessa sinks into her seat and pages through the bundle slowly. She checks Clint’s signature at the bottom of several pages, checks dates and numbers and separates the papers into stacks that apparently mean something to her. He waits calmly, ignoring the clacking of keys from the other two and the low-voiced phone call one of them made, with a pathetic attempt at concealment – the guy actually _turned his back and hunched over the receiver_ , for fuck’s sake. SHIELD should really have higher standards than that, even for HR drones.

“This is, uh, all correct,” Vanessa finally says, and taps the edges together. “Medical has to... sign off on whether there’s any long-term impairment, Psych too and uh, there’s an exit interview to cover security and any other... issues.”

Clint nods. “But there’s nothing else you need from me?”

She puts the tips of her fingers gingerly on the pages. “No,” she says quietly, “nothing else.” And before Clint can step away she raises her eyes to his, “I’m very sorry to see you go, Agent Barton. You’ll be missed.”

Clint stares at her, wide-eyed for a second before he disappears.

 

 

 

He forces himself to walk, contained, down the hallway from HR toward the lift. He takes one slow breath and then presses the down button, readying himself. This is not home turf for him anymore, he has to remember that. Just like the Helicarrier, Clint Barton is no longer truly a part of this place, and that’s about to be brought home in the most delightful way.

The elevator doors part to reveal – unshockingly – Nick Fury, arms folded, leaning against the rear wall of the elevator. Clint doesn’t even blink, just steps inside, turns in one neat motion and hits the button for the lobby. He takes another slow breath as he straightens and stares at the vertical line where the doors meet, hands clasped behind his back. It’s perilously close to parade rest. Not much he can do about that. Or the way the elevator isn’t moving. It won’t move, he knows, until Fury wants it to.

“I thought we should talk.”

“Does this count as my exit interview?” Clint asks, flat.

He brings the quick glimpse of Fury’s face back to mind. The Director is sporting a small cut high on one cheek. Near his good eye.

_Good for you_ , _Tash_ , Clint thinks with grim amusement.

“I sincerely hope this isn’t the entirety of your plan, Agent Barton. Throwing away a decade-long career and a spot in the Avengers like a three year old throwing a tantrum. Please tell me there’s a cunning twist somewhere.”

Clint doesn’t answer. He can’t win this, he knows. Fury is a master manipulator, and the only answer Clint could give would lay his heart utterly bare. But he doesn’t have to win. He’s submitted his resignation. Fury can deny, can delay, can sneer, but he can’t _force_ Clint to be an agent of SHIELD.

“To be honest, I always expected something like this from you. I was never convinced you had what it took to make it in SHIELD. But he convinced me. Agent Coulson swore you would be worth it.”

It takes every biofeedback trick Clint knows to keep his breathing even, stop his hands from clenching.

“And _this_ is your repayment?”

For a moment Clint is blind with rage and hurt. He knows, of course, he _knows_ that Fury is doing it deliberately, is baiting Clint to see what will burst out of him. It’s a lot like falling down the stairs – you feel the sick lurch in your gut, you’re already tumbling forward and it’s going to hurt, no matter what. Can’t change any of it. Only question is – will you get your hands out in time to break your fall, or not? He presses his lips together and hangs on, _hangs on_ until he can speak calmly to the elevator doors.

“The way I see it, Director, there’s two possible explanations. The first is that maybe we didn’t really know each other all that well.” And oh fuck, saying that burns because it’s truer than Clint can stand. Has to be, otherwise _how_ could Coulson have done that to him? To _Tasha?_ “Second, that I have, somehow, got the crazy idea that I am entitled to make decisions about my life.”

He hears the slight rustle of Fury’s ever-present leather coat. “You’re blaming the wrong person, Barton,” he says clearly still annoyed. “It was my call. If you’re angry or feeling betrayed or some bullshit like that, it should be me you’re punishing, not Coulson.”

_If you’re betrayed_.

If.

He manages to hold in the harsh bark of laughter that tries to escape.

“You’re the Director of SHIELD,” he says simply instead, and the clasp of his hands behind his back is more like a death grip now. He knows Fury can see it, the white knuckles, can’t much help that. “Your loyalty is to SHIELD, not its agents, we all know that.”

“Meaning what?” And Fury sounds genuinely curious now.

“Meaning you could never betray me,” Clint says. “I had no expectation of loyalty from you, never have. I’ve always known you’d do whatever you needed to for the good of the agency. Every agent on the books knows that, if they’re not a complete moron.”

But Coulson. Yeah. Clint had had some fucking expectation of loyalty there, all right. Had never questioned, had _known_ right down in his gut that the connection there was genuine. Maybe it wasn’t exactly what Clint had wanted from the older man, but he’d believed there was real trust between him and Coulson and Tasha.

There’s silence, then Fury sighs. “Resignation not accepted,” he says, and he must give some kind of signal because the elevator starts moving, carrying them down toward the lobby. “Take a leave of absence,” he says.

Clint swallows. He’s not exactly surprised that Fury won’t just let him go, he knows an asset like him represents a shitload of investment, time and money-wise. He also knows if Fury _can_ somehow pull Clint back in it will probably smooth the way with the other Avengers, who are probably having their own hissy fits about this mess. Luckily that’s not Clint’s problem.

Of course, he can’t deny reality either. He takes another breath, throat tight and grits out, “We both know that if you want me back on the Avengers, you’ll manipulate events to make it happen.” It wouldn’t even be that hard, Clint acknowledges to himself. If Tasha were hurt, for instance. Another alien invasion – _how is this his life?_ \- and Clint would come running without a second thought, if Steve and the others asked for him.

The elevator doors open and Clint doesn’t hesitate, steps immediately into the corridor. Throughout the lobby agents and admin staff alike freeze, then scatter, leaving the two of them effectively alone. _Obvious much?_ Clint thinks tiredly and keeps walking.

This has to be the most public fucking breakup in history, and he isn’t even in a fucking relationship. 

Then Fury’s voice drifts out into the corridor again. “I’ve known him for twenty years, you know that? Since he was in the Rangers.”

And Clint hates, _hates_ , that he can’t resist that. He knows almost nothing about Sergeant Coulson, and he’s so fucking _hungry_ – even now – to know more. He pauses mid-step.

“Twenty years of watching each other’s backs, twenty years of shared blood and sweat. When I started SHIELD he didn’t even hesitate, joined up with me back when we were just a hidden line item in a black ops budget, no power and precious little jurisdiction.”

Clint just stands there, eyes on the floor. He can’t stop the fast breaths, can’t control the clenching of his fists.

“Twenty years of friendship and favours,” Fury says quietly. “And I had to call in every single one to get him to agree. He didn’t argue about disappearing. Didn’t bitch about losing his name, his career, even the fucking cellist in Portland.”

Clint doesn’t flinch at that reminder. The cellist was just another fact of life that meant he’d never have Coulson. He’s been resigned to _that_ for a lot longer than three miserable months.

“The only thing he asked was that I made sure you were okay, that you were handling things. That I keep my one good eye on you,” and by the time Fury finishes he’s standing right at Clint’s back, which is one hell of a fucking risk considering the state of mind Clint is currently in.

“That sound like disloyalty to you, Agent?”

His eyes are burning, but fucked if he’s going to cry in front of fucking _Fury_ , in the middle of _SHIELD_. And though it’s something, these details Fury is providing, even if they’re true they hardly matter to Clint.

Coulson _chose_.

He chose Fury and SHIELD first, like he always has and always will. And Clint just can’t fucking pretend anymore that it hasn’t cracked him wide open. It’s not even as simple as wanting to avoid seeing Coulson or punish the man.

Clint’s a mess of hairline fractures, seconds away from implosion, and getting away from here is the only way he knows to salvage what’s left of himself. So he says the only thing he can. “We both know that a sniper without his head in the game is a danger to himself, and to the team. I’m not irreplaceable, and I’m not kidding. You should start looking for another Hawkeye.”

And he starts walking, measured and straight, toward the huge double doors that will release him from SHIELD, and into civilian life.

Behind him, Fury sighs.

“And here’s me thinking there’s only one.”

 

 


	4. Damage

 

 

Clint exits SHIELD and turns sharp left. He walks a block or two and then some instinct has him raising his head as a car slides to a stop on his right, regardless of traffic. It’s not the anonymous sedan it should have been – _of course_ , he thinks wryly as he climbs inside the Porshe. A SHIELD vehicle would hardly be a smart choice right now. Which meant hotwiring a stolen car, or-

“Did you even ask if you could borrow it?” he says, and glances across at the driver.

Natasha shrugs, “Like Stark will even notice,” and guides them into traffic. She holds out a phone, which Clint takes, and when he turns it on there is his wallpaper (a minion dressed up as the Hitman), his contacts, his Twitter feed.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, and shoves it in his pocket. There’s silence for a moment, then he sighs heavily. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I just. I had to- get out of there.”

She doesn’t reply. Tash doesn’t do apologies, giving or receiving them. She’d have read everything he was feeling in his body language and understood even more. They don’t talk much, and somehow it’s always worked for them.

“Bad luck about Fury’s eye,” he offers instead.

She _hmfs_ at that. “I’d like to see Rogers take me on without the serum,” she says darkly.

Clint makes a face. “He’s probably still blushing at having to manhandle you.” Rogers does okay, generally, with not being _gallant_ around Natasha, but he still finds it difficult to go as hard as he should when they’re sparring. Clint’s half-sorry he didn’t get to see the guy take her on when there was no holding back.

“Shouldn’t have gone for Fury’s remaining eye,” she says with a shrug. “I think even Cap would have stayed out of it if I’d gone for a straight knockout. It’s hard for me to remember he’s genuinely a nice guy and not just faking.”

“Stark would have sold tickets,” Clint says.

They both lapse into silence as they head back to the Tower.

“You’re serious with this,” she says. “Resigning.”

Clint sighs. “I can’t keep going. Not now. Not- not like this.”

She just nods, and he loves her so fiercely in that moment it takes his breath away a little. She knows Clint’s every secret, always has, and never discusses them. Not even with Clint. “Fury will fight for you,” she says instead. “Not just to save face with the team, either. You’re valuable.”

“So I suddenly hear,” Clint sighs.

She makes that shape with her mouth that speaks of massive irritation and he relents. This is an old, unsolvable argument. Clint knows he has skills, knows he’s called Hawkeye for a reason and yet he’s never quite cast off that ingrained fear every circus performer absorbs early on - that he’s just the current fad, that when the next big thing comes along he’ll be one more washed-up has-been, grifting just to get by.

“Yeah, I get it,” he says. “And I’m not- I mean. The team is one thing. But SHIELD-”

“So you’re not going to disappear in a dramatic puff of smoke?”

He twists his mouth into the pretence of a smile at the habitual poke at circus life. “Nothing wrong with some stagecraft,” he shrugs at her as his phone starts to ring. He looks at the screen warily, but it’s only Chandler. He rejects the call.

Tasha waits.

“No,” he sighs and rolls his head on the seat to stare out at the buildings sliding by. Damn shame he can’t enjoy this car in his current state of mind. “No, I guess not.”

There’s silence then, and they’re only a block from the Tower when she says slowly, “I can’t. This mission- I have to.”

He jolts upright. “Jesus, Tash! I know that, shit, this is my issue, not yours, don’t even-” because Estonia is a fucking _trafficking ring_ , and at least half their inventory is _kids_ -

And then the tiny curl at the corner of her mouth says everything’s all right.

With the two of them, at least.

 

 

 

 

 

His phone rings again as they’re exiting the car and he glances down at the display, still wary. Then he frowns and turns it to show Tasha. Their eyes lock and he answers the call, sets it to speaker and puts it down on the hood of the Porche.

(puts his phone down on the hood of the fucking _Porche!_ Barney would never believe this shit)

“Barton.”

“Agent Sitwell,” Clint says warily. “To what do I owe the honour-”

“I’m informed by the Director that you’re taking a leave of absence,” Sitwell says, and Tasha is staring at the polished concrete floor, listening intently. Clint watches her instead of staring at the screen. _Why is_ Sitwell _making this call?_

“Is that what he’s saying.”

“It is.” There’s something rumbling underneath Sitwell’s cool tone, something dangerous, and Tasha blinks twice in reaction, processing. “Thing is, the paperwork I have in front of me looks very much like you’re requesting a termination.”

Clint hesitates, unsure where this is headed, and Sitwell just barrels on, “So I’m going to ask you, Agent Clint Francis Barton of SHIELD, do you intend now or at any time in the future to fuck over this agency’s missions or assets by sharing classified information?”

Clint blinks. “Uh. No.”

“Good enough for me,” Sitwell says, “I’m not sure what Chandler’s plans were but from my perspective your security separation component is now completed.” Clint blinks at that, Tash’s eyes narrow as Sitwell goes on.

“I’ve had your medical records pulled, and for once in your life, Barton, you’ve managed not to fuck things up for yourself. Says here the last three times you went into the field you consented to brief medical exams, and since the last examination was clear of injury and you haven’t been actively deployed since, I have, miracle of miracles, found a doctor willing to sign off on your paperwork. Possibly it’s just so that they never have to look at your ugly face again.”

Clint stares at Natasha, whose whole body has relaxed, her mouth relaxed, eyes clear on his. She’s caught something in Sitwell’s tone he missed.

“Uh. Thank you?” he tries.

“Uh-huh. Now. I can’t control Psych. They have to sign off separate to Medical and if Dr Del Rey wants to insist on a final session, or series of sessions, I can’t do a damn thing about it. But from my point of view your paperwork is complete, and will be filed by the end of the day. I thought with your consent I’d also store a backup copy with The Avengers’ legal representatives in case of dispute.”

Clint swallows. He’s not sure what any of this means, but that last part sounded suspiciously like Sitwell is trying to put up a buffer between Clint and any machinations Fury might try to pull. Or maybe it’s Chandler, separate from the Director. “That sounds... great,” he manages to choke out. It’s a little startling to receive support from a place he recently invaded and shot at.

“Yeah, well,” Sitwell says, and for the first time he hesitates. Then he says, rapid fire, “We both know I learned how to handle paperwork from the best in the business.”

Clint’s throat closes over. He looks at Tash, who shrugs sadly at him. _So... Sitwell didn’t know either._

“I wish you the best of luck, Barton,” Sitwell says, and he’s running out of steam now, as if he’s poked at a wound and is overwhelmed at the wave of pain. “I hope you’re drunk on a beach somewhere the next time I speak to you. You sure as shit deserve it, you and Romanov both.”

Clint swallows and makes himself say evenly, “I’ll do my best, sir.”

“See that you do.”

 

 

 

 

 

His phone has never rung so many times in one day. Clint sighs and steps into his apartment as he answers.

“Wow,” Clint says nastily. “Fury’s really pulling out all the stops.”

Dr Del Rey isn’t phased by nasty. She wouldn’t have gotten far in SHIELD if she was. “This isn’t about the Director. I haven’t spoken to him in over a week, and I haven’t discussed your particular case for over four weeks. This is about you being my patient, Agent Barton, and about the termination form that has just landed on my desk.”

He’s silent.

“Agent Barton,” she says. Then she goes quiet. “I understand you received quite a shock yesterday.”

No response. Though he’s curious just how much scuttlebutt has drifted back to SHIELD about this. Is Coulson completely resurrected, or is there just enough gossip for a few in the know to have figured it out? Maybe Sitwell told her?

“I’m not requesting an appointment to try and change your mind, or influence your decision to resign. I simply want to make sure you’re in a good place, that you have a plan for how to move forward with this, before you withdraw from SHIELD and its support processes entirely.”

Clint doesn’t answer, but he hasn’t hung up, and that’s an answer all on its own. He walks over to the huge windows at the end of his living area and stares out at the construction site that is New York, at the endless reminders that refuse to fade into the background for Clint and his fucked-up psyche.

“You don’t have to come to SHIELD if you’d prefer not to. I’ll meet you at a place of your choosing.”

He closes his eyes. _Damn, she is good_.

“Come to the Tower in forty minutes,” he finally says, and hangs up.

He spends a good fifteen minutes staring at the walls and trying to decide if he’ll talk to her or not. He’s not in a ‘good place’ for fuck’s sake, and right now it feels like he never will be again. But.

It makes sense to try and... make a plan of some kind. Beyond getting away from SHIELD and all associated memories, that is. Beyond drinking himself blind and shouting at birds as they fly by and becoming a vagrant, or a vigilante, or a hermit. Or all three. A vagrilantmit.

He heaves a sigh and heads down to the basement. Outside the workshop he pauses, then drags in a breath and knocks on the glass wall. Jarvis knows he’s there, of course, but it’s common courtesy. The mad genius crouched over the workbench looks up, gestures Clint in and yells for Jarvis to cut the music.

“Barton,” Stark says, uneasy.

Right. They haven’t seen each other since the whole restaurant... thing.

For a long moment Clint thinks he can’t do this, then he grits his teeth and asks, “How sure are you that Fury isn’t monitoring us inside this building?”

Stark blinks. “Pretty sure,” he says after a moment. “Jarvis sweeps constantly for surveillance equipment and in general I go to SHIELD in order to keep their operatives out of the Tower. Phones are harder to secure, of course, but whenever you dock them with Jarvis he overwrites the firmware, which is about the best I can do without locking us to Stark satellite coverage only.”

Clint just nods. He can’t explain the twitchy feeling he has that there’s nowhere safe anymore, nowhere private enough. He thought he knew this new world, without Coulson in it. Turns out he didn’t know one fucking thing, and it’s just making him more paranoid and unbalanced than he’s ever been – which is really saying something, considering Clint’s life so far.

“If you had to pick one place in the Tower that you knew for sure was private-” he begins, squinting across the room at one of the ‘bots rather than meeting Stark’s gaze.

“Here,” Stark says immediately, which makes sense because, well. Iron Man and arc reactors, _duh_. “I have contingencies set up for the workshop you couldn’t begin to imagine. Nobody sets foot in here that I don’t trust.”

Clint blinks, because _he’s_ inside the workshop. “Oh.”

They stare at one another briefly and then Stark’s mouth twitches. “So. You’re really quitting?”

Clint winces. “Uh. Yeah.”

“Just SHIELD? Or the Avengers too?”

Clint shrugs. It’s not a question he’d had to consider until a few hours ago. Can he even _be_ an Avenger if he’s not on SHIELD’s payroll? “Don’t know,” he says, giving the only answer he has.

Stark just nods, sharp, his eyes knowing.

“Well,” he says finally, and reaches for a hideously oily rag. “If you need a guaranteed Fury-and-SHIELD free zone for something, you’ve come to the right place. Mi workshop es su workshop.” He shrugs, drops the rag on the bench and rises.

Clint stares. Tony fucking Stark is vacating his workshop so Clint can talk to his shrink. What the actual fuck?

“Stark,” he says, and then stops because what is he even going to say? “Uh. Thanks.”

Stark shrugs, then pauses by the workshop door. Then he says, “Look. Clearly I have no idea what you’ve been through. But.” He takes a long, careful breath and tells the glass wall, “I know something about finding out your entire world is seriously fucked up and the things you _thought_ you knew were bullshit. And I know we don’t know each other very well, but. This team means something, to every one of us. What I’m saying is - I’m on your side.”

Clint stands there for a moment, then manages to say, “Thanks.” Then he pulls himself together enough to add, “Though I’m pretty sure you’d team up with Justin Hammer and Satan if it would fuck Fury over.”

“Damn straight,” Stark says with a faint smile. He drags the workshop door open and says, “And if you need anything to further that agenda, just ask, okay? Now or later.” He winks at Clint, and leaves.

 

 


	5. Harm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're someone who likes to picture a face like I do, I have cast the beautiful Adriana Barraza as Dr Del Rey. http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0056770/

 

“Doc,” Clint says as Tasha ushers the shrink into the workshop. He hadn’t trusted himself to meet her - he is very close to rabbiting right now. Anyway, Tash had insisted on running their visitor through security protocols. He’s been trying not to picture Natasha patting down Dr Del Rey... his brain understands that would be horribly, horribly inappropriate, while another part of him is intensely interested.

“Agent Barton,” she says, and sinks down into the grubby couch Tony keeps down here. It’s very billionare boho – which means the thing probably cost more than a family car originally, but it has now had some pretty serious treatment from Tony’s oil-stained hands and Dummy’s sharp edges, and now it mostly looks like it’s waiting to be set on fire. Still, Del Rey manages to look calm and unruffled so, y’know, points to her.

“Think you should probably drop the title, Doc,” Clint says. “It’s just Clint now.”

She nods once, slowly.

Tash has just reached the door when Clint manages to get out, “Wait.” She turns slowly, and he croaks out one word, “Stay.”

She doesn’t raise an eyebrow, just flicks a glance from the shrink to Clint and then takes a seat on a rolling stool with her usual grace. Dr Del Rey doesn’t ask, either, but Clint drags in a long breath and says shakily, “I can’t say this shit twice.”

“All right.” Then she smooths her hands over her skirt and waits, hands clasped on her knees. She didn’t bring her notebook. Or maybe Tasha tossed it in a vat of acid.

There’s a pretty long silence, and Clint knows he’s supposed to fill it, but he’s not sure where to start. They have a goal here, which is nice. Clint in a ‘good place’. He shakes his head and says on impulse, “I know you know I’ve been faking.”

Del Rey inclines her head. “You’re extremely convincing,” she says, her accent thickening the sounds beautifully, “which isn’t unusual for an agent trained in deep cover techniques.”

“How did you know, then?” he asks in spite of himself.

“Because no-one is that well adjusted, Clint” she replies, and her eyes are kind.

She _radiates_ calm kindness, which had helped immeasurably in Clint’s careful mix of part-truth, part-fabrication over the past few months. “You talked openly with me about Loki and mind-control, about your burden of guilt, about flashbacks, about being afraid you’d harm Agent Romanov, about not being good enough for your team.”

“I didn’t just open up,” Clint says, offended. He’s _professionally offended_ , here. “I made you work for it. I was a total pain the ass.”

She nods, and her lips twitch. “Yes, you did. Your reputation remains intact.” She spares a fleeting glance for Tasha there. “You misdirected and you deflected and you were sullen a good part of the time. You faked an extremely compelling therapeutic journey, Clint, although for true accuracy you should probably have scheduled in some setbacks. I’m strongly tempted to write a paper, if I’m honest.”

He snorts. “Feel free, doc. Take my name out of it and my fucked up psyche is all yours.” There’s a pause, then he says, “But you knew anyway.”

“I did.”

And now it’s Clint’s turn to stare and wait. After a long silence, Del Rey takes a deep breath and says carefully, “You’re not the first active Agent of SHIELD I’ve worked with, Clint.”

Clint blinks at her. “No _way_ ,” he says, and his eyes fly to Tasha’s for a second before he refocuses on the doc. She can’t mean what he thinks she means.

“There was only one aspect of your career and your life that you utterly refused to bring into our sessions,” she says softly. “That’s what you might call a tell.”

“So you knew something from-” he can’t say _from being Coulson’s appointed shrink_. He also can’t say _Coulson talked about me?_ Not just because she wouldn’t answer but because the same rules are still in play. The same reason he’d made such an obvious mistake. He’d known perfectly well what Del Rey would read into it, but Clint’s reasons for excluding his former handler from conversation had been very simple.

He just. Couldn’t. Fucking. Say. The other man’s name. Not if he didn’t want to crack open and howl like a baby.

“I knew from reading your file that you’d had a long and close partnership with Agent Coulson,” Del Rey says before Clint can continue. “It’s also common knowledge around SHIELD that the three of you are something of an unholy combination, unstoppable when combined. Efficiency, creativity and ruthlessness,” she counts them off on her fingers, like Clint has heard a thousand times.

“Were,” Clint says, and everything seems to go still.

“Yes,” Del Rey says after a few moments. “That’s the heart of the problem, isn’t it.”

Clint’s own heart is hammering. He can’t look at either of them. The Unholy Trinity, Sitwell used to call them. “You already know,” he says, like a coward. “You already know how I felt.”

 _“Felt?”_ Tasha speaks for the first time.

Clint shakes his head, helpless and angry, and looks away, shoulders hunching. _Don’t fucking ask me that_. He’s being haunted by the past tense.

There’s a long pause while they all resettle, and then Del Rey says softly, “You made the decision to resign very quickly, Clint.”

He shakes his head at that. “Not really. It’s what I’ve wanted to do for a while – ever since. But I couldn’t.”

“Couldn’t?”

Clint doesn’t want to answer that one.

“Out of respect,” Tasha says knowingly.

Clint shrugs, scrubs a hand over his face and looks away. It had been the only decision that had felt right, at the time. Now he mostly feels like a chump.

Del Rey doesn’t try to fill the silence, and after a long time, Clint sighs and meets her eyes. “You asked me, on the phone,” he begins. “If I’m in a good place.”

“I’d be very surprised if you were, after the past few days,” she says.

“Yeah. Well. You’re not wrong.” he drags in a breath. “But, okay, I assume what you’re really asking is if I’m thinking of jumping off a bridge without a belaying line.”

Del Rey’s face keeps its professional mask. He likes that she doesn’t shake easily.

“And the answer,” he adds, “is that I’m not. I’m messed up. No denying it. I’m fucked up by what I’ve just found out and I’m still mad and guilty and hurt by what came before. But. That’s not a route I’ve ever thought about taking. I wouldn’t do that.”

“You’re saying you wouldn’t actively kill yourself.”

“That’s right. That’s one of the things you have to be sure of, right?”

“Preferably,” she says dryly. “Of course, there’s more than one way to achieve that outcome. People drink too much, they mix medications, they drive while distracted. Or, for instance, an agent could accept highly dangerous assignments. They could also simply be too distracted in the field to keep themselves safe.”

“No,” Clint says sharply. “I wouldn’t do that.”

She doesn’t reply and he clarifies, “I wouldn’t do that to my team. If your head’s not in the game then you don’t go out there at all. If I thought I couldn’t operate effectively I would have _never_ come back to the Avengers in the first place.”

“He values everyone else’s lives too much for that,” Tasha says.

Del Rey looks over at Natasha for the first time. Two strong, striking women. Clint watches them, some kind of silent conversation happening there that he can’t begin to decipher.

“I hope you’re very sure of that, Agent Romanov,” the doc finally says.

“ _I_ value _his_ life too much for anything else,” Tasha says, and Clint feels a faint smile touch his mouth when she adds pointedly, “ _Someone_ has to.”

Del Rey finally turns her attention back to Clint. She takes a few deep breaths, seemingly turning things over in her mind. “I agree that you don’t pose an immediate risk to yourself. I also don’t see you as any kind of risk to the agency.”

“Was there some question of that?” Tasha asks before Clint can. The doc makes an unimpressed face but doesn’t answer and Clint thinks, _Chandler_. He’ll have found out about Sitwell’s end-run by now. Probably pulling out all the stops to try and reel Clint back in, under his control. That guy has some kind of agenda, it’s been obvious from the start. Doesn’t even seem to be Fury’s agenda, oddly enough. There’s a weird dynamic there.

“So you’ll sign off on my resignation?” Clint asks.

She sighs. “I would prefer to place a recommendation that you return for private sessions with me whenever you are in New York, or, if you prefer, that you begin therapy with a doctor of your own choice, someone you can truly trust. You have things you need to work through, Clint.”

He watches her for a few moments, thinks of the way she’d walked into Tony Stark’s workshop and sat on a ratty sofa without batting an eye, didn’t protest at Tasha’s presence. “I can agree to seeing a therapist I trust,” he says finally. “You’ll fit me into your schedule if I call, huh doc?”

There’s a moment of pleased surprise on her face before the professional mask reasserts itself. “I would be honoured, Agent Barton,” she says quietly, and smooths her hands over her knees again. Clint musters a tired smile and manages not to reply that he’s not the only one with a _tell_.

 

* **

 

Chandler finds him next. It’s sheer bad luck that Clint’s sweaty thumb slipped over the screen so that he hit accept instead of reject. Treadmill running: bad for your mental health.

Chandler can’t get any further into Avengers Tower than the lobby. Stark, thin-lipped, had made _very_ sure of that the minute Fury had introduced the Avengers to their new handler. It’s weird, but when Chandler wants to talk to the five of them (six, when they get Thor back), he comes to the tower and the team all catch their private lift down to the foyer to meet in the secure room Stark has set aside for Avengers’ business only.

There was some posturing at first, Chandler trying to drag them all down to SHIELD every time they met, but Stark straight-out refuses to come unless he’s already got an ulterior motive like hacking Fury’s files, and Banner avoids government buildings like the plague. Steve – all calm reason and authority in Captain Rogers mode – talked Chandler around the third time a meeting at SHIELD yielded only three-fifths of the Avengers. The guy talks big but he’s got nothing to back it up.

“Barton,” Chandler drawls. “You’re required at SHIELD for an exit interview.”

“I’ve been interviewed,” Clint says. “The paperwork’s been filed.”

“Agent Sitwell has no authority over you, Barton. I am the handler assigned to the Avengers-”

“Has it ever bothered you that your name rhymes with your job title? I’ve always found it weird. Imagine being a chef called Jeff.”

There’s a moment of silence and then Chandler says firmly, “You’re required to present yourself at SHIELD. If you refuse to comply then you will be deemed a security risk and the appropriate warrants will be issued. I don’t think anyone could argue that the Agent who recently attacked the Helicarrier and caused dozens of deaths at SHIELD isn’t a security risk, so if you’re counting on Stark to dig you out of trouble, I should remind you that-”

“I was at SHIELD this morning,” Clint says softly, using every trick he knows to keep the shakiness in his limbs out of his voice. And _hoo boy_ , he thinks in the back of his head, would Del Rey be _pissed_ if she overheard this conversation.  She has been very clear about issues of free will during the Helicarrier attack, and forced Fury to issue a SHIELD-wide memo about the language staff are to use when discussing it. That had been a fun day for Clint.

He forces himself to go on, “I spoke with Director Fury, who watched me exit the building. If _he_ didn’t require my continued presence at SHIELD, then I’m sure as shit not going to return there for a posturing bag of dicks like you, Agent Chandler. And I’m afraid your attempts at coercion are pretty fucking amateur compared to what your colleagues at SHIELD can manage. Shit, even Mike the mailroom guy can manoever people into supporting that stupid Pie Day fundraiser that nobody likes and yet somehow raised over a grand last year. Maybe you should spend your time taking lessons from him, Agent Chandler. You’re wasting your time with me.”

Clint hangs up and sinks onto the couch. His phone drops onto the rug between his feet, and he presses his hands over his face. _Dozens of deaths at SHIELD_.

Chandler’s not wrong, is the thing.

Dozens. That’s not even counting the deaths at the research facility that first night, when the world turned icy blue for Clint. Not even counting the collateral damage from the jobs he did for Loki, like eyeball guy. Clint still hasn’t had the balls to find out if the guy died from his injuries or not.

 _“Fuck,”_ he manages, and hunches into a little ball until the sound of his breathing drowns everything out.

 

 


	6. Failure

 

He takes a long, very hot shower. It’s a comfort that’s not hard to access, usually, and over the years Clint has come to revel in it, the white wall of noise, the sensation of the droplets hitting his skin, the mindless space he can drift into. When he finally gets out, the bathroom walls are gleaming with condensation and steam hangs in the air, because not even the Tower’s fancy ventilation system can cope with that much humidity.

He presses hot fingertips over his eyes and breathes in once, twice, then lifts his head, towels off, and gets dressed all without meeting his own eyes in the mirror. He’s gotten so good at faking normalcy that even his own reflection fools him sometimes. But not right now.

“Agent Barton,” Jarvis says, tentative.

Clint sighs. He already knows what’s coming. There’s only one possible fucking thing left – unless Barney is about to knock on his fucking door. “Yeah, Jarvis?”

“Agent Coulson is on the line, asking if you will see him.”

“On the line?”

“I believe he is calling from the car, en route to the Tower.”

Clint nods, unravelling that. Coulson is assuming he’s not welcome in the Tower at all, not just in Clint’s quarters. That must have been some showdown in the restaurant after Clint left. Or maybe Coulson knows how things have been run with Chandler on the scene. He runs a hand over his face. He’s not going to resort to some passive aggressive bullshit with Coulson and hide. More honestly, he wants this over with, and he knows it’s best to be in a safe, private place the minute Coulson leaves.

“Sure, Jarvis, let me know when he’s on his way up to the suite, okay?”

“Of course, Agent Barton.”

This. _Fucking._ Day.

 

 

 

The door opens soundlessly and Clint steps back, ushering Coulson inside with an easy gesture and no eye contact. His heart is hammering in his chest.

“An apology is completely inadequate,” Coulson begins without preamble. “I do understand that.”

Clint nods once. The door closes behind Coulson.

“But I’m offering one anyway.”

Clint nods again.

There’s a lot more silence. Coulson won’t push, he’s going to take his cues from Clint, apparently.

“Were we ever going to find out?” Clint finally asks.

Coulson hesitates and Clint runs his eyes over the other man from the neck down. His suits are different – not as well tailored. Well. He couldn’t exactly return to his old haunts to buy more, could he?

“I mean, was Fury one day going to wheel his chair up next to mine at the So Fucking Old They’re Useless Home for Aged Spies and say, hey, Barton, you’re gonna laugh when you see who’s here...”

“Medical and Psych will be thrilled that you’re allowing thoughts of retirement to enter your head.”

Part of Clint wants to smile. Another part howls at having the banter that’s so close to Before, it’s like tipping sea water over an already salted wound.

There’s a pause, then Coulson says, low, “I don’t know.”

Clint absorbs that like a blow as Coulson adds, “I was working on the Director. Trying to persuade him to bring you and Romanov in on ...this intel.”

The ‘intel’ that my death was not so much of an actual death. _Intel._ Fucking _fuck_.

“But he couldn’t be sure we’d keep it from the rest of the team,” Clint says, because Fury’s agenda here is for once, pretty damn obvious.

Coulson sighs and nods.

“And he couldn’t risk pissing off Stark.”

Coulson nods again.

“So, no,” Clint says. “We weren’t ever going to know that you were retired and working as a short-order cook in Duluth.”

And Coulson’s reflection in the window looks so fucking exhausted that Clint just can’t keep doing it.

He has to say _something_ about why he’s reacting this way – nobody knows better than Clint how relentless Phil Coulson can be while giving the impression of mild-mannered efficiency. But what Clint gives up is going to be _Clint’s_ fucking _choice_.

He turns back to his packing as he talks. “I was in protective custody on the ‘carrier for three weeks,” Clint says.

Coulson’s reflection nods.

“Lots of time to think.”

“I imagine so.”

“This was the conclusion I came to while I was in there. That I should resign. That I was done.” He shrugs and hopes like hell that will be enough. Because his hopes have always turned out _so well_ before.

“But you didn’t,” Coulson says after a long time. “You stayed.”

“Yeah, well,” Clint grimaces and knows Coulson will hear it in his voice. “Then Stark got involved.”

“ _Stark?”_ Coulson sounds confused, as well he might. Clint and Tony Stark hadn’t even _met_ before the assault on the Helicarrier. And the odds of them immediately bonding over, well, _anything_ , were vanishingly small. Unless it was a shared dislike of OneDirection. “Not Romanov?”

Oh not that a-fucking- _gain_. Coulson has never let go of the fact that Clint and Tasha used to be an item. Clint’s well aware that Coulson has assumed, all these years, that he and Tash are still screwing, they’re just being discreet in order to simplify the whole fraternization question. Neither of them ever addressed it – Tasha because she doesn’t give a shit what anyone thinks, Clint because he didn’t want Coulson to notice that his prize sniper wasn’t, actually, screwing anyone at all.

It might have raised other, more awkward questions.

Clint swallows hard and makes sure he can keep it together enough to say, “Stark was all set to have all the Avengers together under one roof.”

“ _His_ roof,” Coulson mutters in that tone only Stark provokes.

Clint almost smiles, “Yeah. So... he comes by, trying to convince me to move in here. I started to tell him I wasn’t really an Avenger, just a guy with a bow-”

Coulson makes a noise behind Clint that could be impatience, could be frustration. Could be gas.

“Anyway, before I can get to the part where I’m resigning anyway, he pulls out his StarkPad and shows me this video.”

“Video?” And now Coulson really sounds lost.

“Yeah,” Clint says, carefully level. “Of your last moments. Or- so we thought.”

There’s silence behind him. He shifts so that he can no longer see Coulson in the window’s reflection, makes sure Coulson can no longer see him.

“So there you are, with your last words trying to get the team together, and I’m thinking about quitting. Didn’t seem – _respectful_ ,” he says, and the bitterness he’s been tasting all this time bursts free. “I mean, what sort of asshole denies a man’s dying wish, right?”

“So you’ve been going through the motions these past few months just because- because you thought it was what I would have wanted?” Coulson asks, and _fuck him_ , because he sounds utterly incredulous that Clint might do such a thing, might value his last moments that way.

“Yeah, well,” Clint says, exhausted all of a sudden. “Don’t worry about that. Because I’m cured.”

“Cured of going through the motions?” Coulson asks.

“Cured of giving a shit what you think,” Clint flashes back, and is instantly sorry because of course it’s a fucking lie, and a mean one at that.

Clint’s heartbroken.

Fine. Doesn’t give him the right to be a douchebag.

Coulson had no idea of Clint’s feelings, didn’t know the kind of wound he was delivering by agreeing to Fury’s _colossally bad_ idea. But if Clint doesn’t get his shit in a pile Coulson _will_ figure it out and there will go Clint’s last tiny thread of dignity and self respect.

He is _not_ going to set himself up for being let down easy by Phil Coulson. The man made a professional call, the shitty kind that people in their line of work have to make all the time. It was the wrong frigging call, no doubt, but Clint is not the fucking prom queen and he is not going to make a spectacle of himself for all of SHIELD to see.

He sighs and scrubs a hand over his face. “Look. I was forcing myself to keep doing this because I thought I ...owed it to you, or your memory, whatever. I had no actual plan for what to do after I resigned, so this seemed as good a choice as any other.”

“And now it’s not.”

“And now the motivation I was using to drag myself through each day is gone. Seems a good time to make a different choice and look for something I might actually want.”

There’s a long silence during which Clint zips up his duffel bag and places it neatly by the door. He turns back then, to the painful part. He swallows, then forces himself to dismantle his bow without thinking about it, breaking it down with practised movements, packing it away for storage somewhere in the mysterious bowels of SHIELD. He snaps the case shut and takes a deep breath just as Coulson speaks again.

“These are emotional decisions you’re making.”

Clint lets out a sharp bark of laughter. _If he only fucking knew_. “Not illegal, far as I know.”

“And you don’t think it’s possible you’ll regret it?”

“I really don’t,” Clint says calmly, moving around the room and tidying up random items as he goes. Arrows. Paperbacks. Baseball cap.

“Director Fury is threatening to write me up for fraternization.”

Clint freezes. “We were never involved,” he squeezes out, eyes locked on Coulson’s knees.

Coulson just looks at him, he can feel the weight of those calm green eyes. Always so _goddam calm_.

Clint turns away and adds, “Even if we had been, SHIELD doesn’t have a fraternization policy.” It’s hard to talk around the rock in his throat. He hadn’t expected that issue to rear its head.

“I doubt those kinds of details would stop him. He is _not_ happy about the possibility of losing an agent of your abilities, and it’s left the Avengers Initiative on shaky ground.”

Fury. SHIELD. The Avengers. It always came back to that. Clint bites down hard on his lip until he can be sure his voice is neutral, “If he’s worried about the team, run them through a sim with someone else. Kate, maybe. Plenty of snipers who can do what I do.”

“If you believe that,” Coulson says sharply, “then we have an even bigger problem than I thought. Because the one thing I have always trusted is that you do, in fact, know your own worth in your job, if nothing else.”

“I’m not superhuman,” Clint replies coolly, gathering up anything that might possibly belong to SHIELD, “not a mutant or a genius. Find someone else with my skill-set and train them up the way you did me.”

“You can’t train intelligence and courage into someone, Barton,” Coulson retorts, “nor can you just manufacture loyalty-”

The arrow in Clint’s hands snaps.

There’s a long silence.

“Best we don’t talk about that,” Clint says finally. He turns away and drops the broken arrow into the trash. “Best we don’t talk about anything, really. You can tell Fury I’m not coming back.”

Coulson doesn’t move. He’s staring at the broken arrow. He moves forward to pick it up and turns it over in his hands. “So. This is about me,” he says softly. “Not about being lied to by SHIELD, or being manipulated by Fury. This is, specifically, about me agreeing to... keep you out of the loop.”

“Out of the loop,” Clint repeats. He stops his pretence at tidying and turns. “Out of the _loop?_ That’s a hell of a fucking way to put it.”

“How would you put it?”

He steps forward, then, and meets Coulson’s eyes for the first time. “You let me believe you were _dead_. That you died during a raid that _I led_. That you’d been killed by the man who invaded my mind and had me dancing like a fucking puppet, stabbed with the _same fucking weapon_ that enslaved me. _Out of the_ _LOOP?_ ”

Coulson is pale now as he rises to his feet. “You’re still blaming yourself for Loki – you shouldn’t be.”

Clint chokes out a half-laugh.

“You know there was no way to fight that kind of control- Psych must have told you this. _Barton_ ,” he barks when Clint doesn’t respond, “It _wasn’t your fault_.”

“I’m done talking about this with you,” Clint says tightly. He heads to the door and collects his bag. “I’ve jumped through all of Fury’s hoops, and you’ve made your best attempt to retrieve the one toy that’s missing from his fucking matched set. Mission abort, Agent Coulson.”

 _“Clint-”_ Coulson begins, hand outstretched.

“No,” he snarls, and rounds on the other man, who doesn’t back down but stands there and absorbs every word like it burns to hear it. “You don’t get to fucking call me that _now_ , when you want something for SHIELD.” Clint drags in a heaving breath and says, low, “Fury’s wrong about fraternization, and you can tell him so, with a clear conscience. There was no relationship, of any kind - we weren’t even _friends._ ”

Coulson stares at him, white-faced.

“We were colleagues, that’s it. Your death was one more fucking burden for me to carry and now that I don’t have to, I’m making a choice to walk away from this mess while I still can.” He drags in a ragged breath and looks away from the older man for a moment. “Tell the truth, when the Director called you today, did you stop to wonder if it was actually better for Clint–the-person to quit, or did you just assume I should stay at SHIELD because Clint-the-sniper suits Fury’s purposes?”

Coulson doesn’t answer, just clenches his fist around the shaft of the broken arrow.

“Yeah,” Clint says softly, damning. “I didn’t think so.”

Coulson swallows.

“Goodbye, sir,” Clint says, throat full of anger and regret. “Have a nice second life.”

 

 

 

 


	7. Loss

 

 

Clint shifts from one foot to the other and glances around the garage. This is _weird_.

People with actual families, maybe _they_ know how to do this shit, waving people goodbye as they go to college, or off on holiday, or from a wedding reception, but this is way out of Clint’s comfort zone. He can’t just fake it, either, because despite his best efforts these past few months, this isn’t actually an undercover op, these guys do know him- a little, at least.

Tasha is keeping her distance, just as freaked out as he is, which leaves Stark, Steve and Banner to do the farewells. Yeah. _Awesome_.

“Keep safe,” Banner says, uncomfortably sincere.

“Thanks,” Clint says.

Steve steps forward. “Take as long as you need,” he says, matter of fact. “The Avengers will still be here when you’re ready.”

Clint blinks, and Steve says firmly, “You’re part of this unit. Doesn’t matter how far you travel, you’ll always be a part of this unit. Understood?”

A faint smile touches Clint’s lips. He’s suddenly sorry he let the whole Captain America... _issue_... keep him at a distance from the guy that’s talking to him right now. “Understood.”

Then it’s Stark’s turn. He ambles over to stand in front of Clint, and claps a firm, grease-stained hand over one shoulder. “Spread your wings, my little butterfly,” he says with deep gravitas.

Startled, Clint huffs out a laugh before he can reel it back in.

“ _Holy shit_ ,” Stark barks, stepping back. He jerks a thumb in Clint’s direction, “Barton _smiled_ , he- did you guys catch that? _Tell_ me you got that on film, Jarvis.”

“Tony,” Steve chides, but he’s smiling.

“And you, scarecrow,” Clint murmurs, backing away, “you I will not miss at all.”

“Your face tells a different story, honeyboo,” Stark shrugs, grinning.

Clint climbs into the little Jeep and slams the door shut. He’s still reeling, a little, from _that_ whole thing, too. Stark cornering him in the lift and shoving a set of keys at him, mumbling fragments of sentences and withholding eye contact... _Pep’s first car which we never use... a few modifications... keep you off Fury’s radar_ and then he’d sauntered off, hands in his pockets.

Dr Del Rey would be proud of him for not refusing the offer, Clint thinks. But honestly? At the moment he’s not capable of turning down anything that will give him distance from Fury and a buffer from his memories.

He starts the engine and it purrs to life in a way that’s shocking for a bucket this old, and yet absolutely standard for anything that has been within fifty feet of Tony Stark. There’s a touchscreen set in the dash that absolutely was _not_ standard in 1983, and Clint suspects that popping the hood will be akin to taking a trip to NASA.

He takes one steadying breath and glances over at Tasha. She nods at him once, and he summons a tired smile/grimace she will easily read. Then he flicks his eyes at the others. “Thanks,” he manages to say. “I’ll uh...”

“Keep in touch,” Banner says, “if you can.” It’s part understanding, part chiding. Clint’s not sure how he’s doing that, though the good doc has spent quite a bit of the past decade doing just exactly what Clint’s doing right now, so.

“Drive safe,” Steve says. Clint nods. Behind Rogers, Stark has gone with the _you complete me_ schtick, complete with drawing a heart in the air, and Clint’s lips twitch. Rogers flings out one arm without looking and slaps Stark in the gut with the back of a hand. It gets a satisfying _oomph_ , and a slight smirk from Rogers.

Clint gives Stark the finger, which draws a genuine grin, and pulls out of the luxury showroom that is Tony’s garage, verrrrry careful not to sideswipe the gleaming Italian specimens on the right, nor the vintage Roadster on the left. Up ahead the garage door is already rising, light spilling into the space, but Clint slows and leans his head out the window.

“Bye, Jarvis,” he says to the concrete ceiling. It would seem rude not to. “Thanks for everything.”

“You are very welcome, Agent Barton,” says Jarvis _from the fucking Jeep’s SPEAKERS_. Clint yelps in shock and flinches. The Jeep lurches and stalls as his foot slips off the clutch and from somewhere he can hear Stark howling with laughter, echoing off the basement walls. “Though perhaps _au revoir_ would be more accurate.”

“A few fucking modifications, _my ass_ ,” Clint mutters. “So. You’re uh, coming along?”

“Not entirely. Sir downloaded a tiny subset of my programming into the vehicle to counter any tracking attempts by SHIELD and to facilitate communication with the Tower in case of emergency. If the Avengers are called to assemble my main program will already be in possession of possible landing sites for the Quinjet and approximate travel times.” There’s a pause, then Jarvis says carefully, “If you prefer I can, of course, shut this subprogram down until such time as you choose to activate it.”

Clint sits there blinking. It’s pretty stalky... but then.

Considering the threats that are out there – and Clint’s not an idiot, he was already a target as a SHIELD agent ( _former_ SHIELD agent, _breathe_ Clint, _breathe_ ) and now he’s possibly a target for revenge for Loki’s destruction, for Clint’s own part in it, or as leverage against the Avengers – yeah. This is probably smart. He sighs and restarts the car.

“No, it’s fine,” he says. “Actually...” he gives Stark the finger one last time as the Jeep rockets up the ramp and out onto the New York streets, “it might be nice to have some company.”

“Sir has pre-loaded me with a number of travel games as commonly played on ‘road trips’,” Jarvis says, and he’s _laughing_ at Clint, the sneaky bastard.

 

***

 

At first he just drives, randomly, paying attention only to the gas gauge and the distance between diners. Sometimes he talks to MiniJarvis, other times he goes silent and angry and frustrated and guilty and other times he blasts music so loud he can’t think at all. At night he runs until his legs won’t work, and a few days in he starts paying attention to places with 24-hour gyms so he can punch the shit out of things when he can’t sleep. Rogers would be proud, he thinks.

A week goes by. Another week. He tells MiniJarvis to let the others know that he’s okay, not drink-driving or picking bar fights, and that one time he does start a bar fight he just takes the day off and loafs around the motel room until his puffy lip has settled so MiniJarvis can’t send back incriminating photos.

It’s helping, but it’s not. He’s not constantly reminded that New York is in pieces (like his life) but he also has no distractions, and shooting at randomly selected targets with his personal bow is nowhere near as satisfying as the range Stark had built in the tower, or the Stark-modified bow he’d been issued by SHIELD.

Clint’s been spoiled, maybe.

He’s musing aloud to MiniJarvis when it turns into a proper conversation about things Clint could do to fill in his time. MiniJarvis then apparently trawls _the entire internet_ on Clint’s behalf and that somehow, mysteriously, leads to Clint volunteering to help build a straw-bale house in rural Wisconsin. It’s good, consuming work, physical enough for him to sleep better at night and the people are eclectic enough to be entertaining, once they accept that Clint doesn’t really want to talk about himself. He seriously considers growing out his hair and getting dreadlocks.

In the middle of that, the Avengers are called out to a thing in DC, which is over by the time Clint could have gotten there. He watches the footage Jarvis sends to his laptop with concern and jealousy, and hates himself a little for feeling relieved that there’s no sniper covering them, he hasn’t been replaced. Also, there’s a definite lack in the banter on comms.

He calls Dr Del Rey the next day and they talk briefly. She agrees to clear a spot in her schedule if Clint finds himself in New York in the near future, and apparently in the meantime Stark has made an office for her in the Tower so Clint can send her video snippets and emails, and they can schedule video chats if Clint feels like he needs it.

It takes him another week, but he finally admits he’s stopped sleeping despite his exhaustion, and he _does_ need it, and it’s like starting therapy all over again except this time he’s not faking the reluctance, and the misdirection just keeps happening automatically rather than as part of a plan. Sometimes he just fucking busts out laughing at how ridiculous it all is. Del Rey isn’t quite as amused, well, not on camera anyway. Clint suspects she laughs her ass off at home, or with colleagues.

He still can’t say Coulson’s name.

 

 


	8. Mishap

 

 

A week after that there’s a disturbance in Japan, and the Quinjet stops off on the way to collect Clint. He’s uneasy, excited, scared, grateful – he’s all over the fucking place, okay, and the only thing that calms him at all is seeing the unguarded delight on the faces of Banner and Rogers as the ramp opens up. Tasha’s face is unreadable, which Clint is going to interpret as joy, or possibly just _you’re getting soft without me to spar with_.

He catches the comm unit one handed, tucks it into his ear and says low, to Tasha, “Who’s running the op?”

“Hill,” she replies, barely audible. He takes a deep breath and jogs up the ramp, nods to Hill as he passes her and dumps his go bag in an under-seat locker holding a couple of similar bags. Then he slides into the pilot’s seat.

They’re crossing the ocean by the time Iron Man chimes in on comms, flying up from some board meeting in Mexico, and Clint is grinning like a fool, because he’s flying again, Tash sitting to his right and his leg is resting against the case for his bow.

 _I missed you, baby_ , he’s crooning in his head. Not aloud. He’s in therapy, not certifiable. _See – a therapy joke, doc_ , he thinks, and resolves to mention it to Del Rey next time they speak. That has to be progress, surely.

Once they’re over the ocean, Tasha leans in and murmurs, “Coulson is barely visible at SHIELD. Stark refused to interact with Chandler a week after you left, then Rogers _requested_ the team receive another handler.”

“You’re _shitting_ me,” Clint manages to keep his voice down. Steve by-the-book Rogers using his influence? “What the hell did Ch-” but a second later he gets it. Chandler’s sneering attitude toward Clint, the way he talks about the attack on the Helicarrier – the moron must have opened his mouth in front of the rest of the team. He takes a breath. “Okay,” he says quietly. “Okay.”

Hill comes forward then and starts giving him background, trying to get it all out of the way before he has to deal with air traffic and urban flight paths. He listens, nodding – killer robots, yadda yadda, unknown creator, yadda yadda, high risk of civilian casualties, minimal destruction, _please_ , yadda yadda.

“Understood,” he says, double-checking his instruments and trying to pretend he hasn’t just had a sudden, vivid flashback  of an ice-blue world where he is shooting at Hill and trying to crash her jeep.

“You’ve kept in practice with the bow?” Hill asks, and he blinks, because what kind of dumb fucking question is _that?_

Only then does it hit him - how this must look from SHIELD’s point of view. For all they know Clint’s been snorting cocaine off the emaciated bodies of underage hookers and taking pot-shots at garden gnomes during epidisodic flashbacks. To be honest, he hadn’t expected Fury to allow any of this, no matter what the team might demand.

“Yes ma’am,” he says, calm and reassuring as he can be. “I’m maintaining my fitness and weapons proficiency, I’m combat-ready in every way.”

“Good to hear, Barton,” she says, but he can hear her voice lose a little of its tension.

 

 

 

The mission goes as well as it can, considering it’s _killer robots_ in a _populated environment_.

It starts out as shitty as possible, with the sudden and unwelcome discovery that their unknown villan had anticipated their arrival by air, and had some pretty hard-core anti-aircraft missiles scattered about the city’s rooftops.

“Shit,” Clint breathes, banking sharp right. “ _Okay_. Okay. This is not working- doc, you there?”

“Here,” Banner says, voice tight.

“How do you feel about uh,” he yanks on the stick and sends them into a high arc, “jumping.”

“I can do that,” Banner says.

“With two passengers?”

“Two p- _Clint_ ,” he says. “No.”

“I’m telling you, it’s gonna take me a while to find a place to set down, and while we’re stuck up here...”

“...robots are approaching the parliament building,” Hill reports tightly from behind Clint.

“We need to get down there,” Rogers says. “Clint’s right, Hulk can cushion our fall.”

Clint spares a second to glance at Tasha, who’s glaring at him. He makes a _sorry_ kind of face, because she is not at all fond of leaping out of planes, but she’s rising from her seat and strapping on her Widow’s Bites.

“Iron Man, you there?”

“Right behind you,” Clint hears, then a muffled grunt as he evades a missile and blasts the rooftop it came from.

He sends a quick glance over his shoulder to the back of the jet. “You spot the Hulk, ok? Make sure nothing, uh-”

“Goes _squish_ ,” Tasha mutters sourly from Bruce’s side. Steve is looking heroic and reliable, as usual, shield slung over his back. Bruce looks like he’s going to hurl any second.

“Oh, sure,” Stark says, “nothing better to do right now anyway. Jarvis, how are we doing on the frequency controlling these tin cans?”

“Working on it, sir.”

“Work faster,” Stark says, and veers away to draw fire while the ramp opens at the back of the jet.

“See you down there,” Clint says tightly, everything focused on keeping the jet stable for the few seconds it’ll take for the others to exit.

“Team is away,” Hill shouts, and the ramp is closing again, cutting down on the cabin noise.

Clint exhales. “Hill, you strapped in?”

“I _have_ flown with you before, Barton,” she calls back, and he laughs.

“Right. Then you were already expecting something stupid,” he says, and sends them into a dive straight at the nearest anti-aircraft array.

He hears her mangle a noise of protest at the way the jet bucks under the strain, but her voice stays steady when she reports, “Be advised there are large numbers of civilians exiting the subway system-”

“On it.” It’s Captain America, voice clipped, and Clint lets out a breath.

“Hulk lands smoother than you do, Hawkeye,” Widow says, and he laughs and takes out another missile launcher.

“Oh, _nice,_ where’s the respect, huh? _”_ he comments. Then Iron Man kills another two launchers, “Just what I needed, Iron Man,” Clint says, and sets them down with more speed than finesse on the nearest flat rooftop. “Hawkeye en route, south-west quadrant,” he calls, pulling his quiver over his head as he runs.

After that it’s – well. Not _routine_. Cap and Widow are out of comms range for a few horrible minutes in the subway, while Iron Man does something complicated with Jarvis to triangulate the signal that’s controlling the ‘bots. Clint mostly electrifies any robot he sees and reports in civilian choke-points to Hill. She sends them on to the local authorities to handle the evacuation. The whole time, Hulk amuses himself playing a life-size version of Whack-a-Mole with the killer robots, leaving behind a trail of shiny metal piles, some still shooting sparks.

It’s maybe two hours later that they’re confident the crisis is over. The abandoned subway depot that had been the source of the ‘bots is secured and handed over to the locals, the disgruntled government AI researcher is in custody, and Stark is mumbling to himself over the fascinating code the bad guy had used in his control components.

Clint has lacerations down the left side of his face, neck and arm from a missile that exploded near his nest, and Steve is icing a wrenched knee which would have required surgery for anyone else. They gather inside a hastily erected tent and sit on plastic chairs, glancing from face to face, quietly grinning.

“Great work, everyone,” Rogers says, and Clint cannot believe he has actually missed this fucking Boy Scout and his textbook teamwork bullshit. But he _absolutely has_.

“Situation Normal,” he agrees, and no-one is more shocked than Clint when an exhausted Banner, on his left, mumbles, “All Fucked Up.”

 _“Doc,”_ he chokes, and Banner blinks lazily at him, grinning. Clint shoulder checks the older man, who manages a laugh, and Stark looks up from his mad-scientist gadget frenzy.

“Yeah, yeah, we missed you, Katniss,” he drawls, while Steve smiles quietly at the floor. Tasha is a warm weight along Clint’s other side, not speaking at all, and for just a moment everything is so, so good.

 

 

 

Tasha’s phone rings as Clint finally submits to being examined by the Japanese medic. She cleans his lacerations with the gentlest hands he’s ever experienced in a work setting. He gifts her a grin and a sketchy bow at the end and she ducks her own head, murmuring thanks. He gets to his feet, still smiling, then freezes when he catches a glimpse of Tasha’s face.

“When?” he hears her ask, eyes burning into Clint’s.

He crosses to her side in two strides and she visibly hesitates, then tilts the phone so that he can hear. It’s still a gut-punch when Coulson’s voice, rapid and strained, hits his ears. “...let them land on US soil. We’re working on it from our end, but I need you to buy us some time.”

“Just Clint and Banner?” she asks. “You’re saying the rest of us can return.”

Coulson sighs. “Yes,” he says. “So far the WSC is looking at you and Rogers as minor annoyances, and Stark, of course, is in a league of his own.”

Clint turns his face away, glances toward Bruce and Tasha, of course, follows both his gaze _and_ his line of thought. “Why Banner?” she says. “It’s not like the Council could hope to hold him.”

Coulson sighs. “General Ross,” he says. “Best intel we have, he’s working both ends against the middle.”

Coulson and that word again, _intel_. Clint swallows hard. This is a fucking nightmare, this is a flashback out of every memory of every op, the three of them, a team-

He staggers back, eyes still locked on Tasha’s. “What if Barton won’t agree?” she asks, watching him. “He’s a free agent now, after all.”

There’s a beat, then Coulson says, hard as stone, “I am well aware of the damage I’ve done to our working relationship, Agent Romanov, but there is no time for you to test me, or for me to prove where my loyalties lie. And if you can’t convince your partner to take a well-earned break simply by raising an eyebrow in his direction then you aren’t half the asset you’ve been pretending to be for the past six years.”

One perfect brow twitches and Clint could swear she’s amused. Her voice, when she speaks, is winter soft. It’s Russian, Clint thinks, he makes out a few typical bullshit words like _wolf_ that mean it’s probably an old proverb of some kind. Then she hangs up without another word.

For a moment they just look at one another, then she turns her head. “Stark,” she says, and Tony looks across the tent at her, one eyebrow raised. “It’s starting,” Tasha says.

Stark’s face hardens. Rogers frowns, obviously confused, but in a heartbeat the team is clustered together. “Go,” Stark says, fingers flying on his StarkPad.

“There’ll be a warrant out for Barton upon our return,” Tasha says. O _kay_ , so Clint clearly missed some stuff at the start of that phone call. “He’s only half of it, though.”

Steve’s face is set as he glances from one to the other. “How do we know this?” he asks quietly. He glances over his shoulder toward Hill, who is surrounded by locals and a few SHIELD reinforcements.

“Coulson,” Tasha says. Clint manages not to flinch at the name.

“The rest of it is me, right?” Bruce says tightly. He’s hugging himself in that habitual way he has and Clint crowds in closer.

“Coulson thinks Ross is forging an agreement with the Council in order to leverage you away from SHIELD, yes.”

“Why do I even matter anymore?” Clint asks. “I’m not a SHIELD agent.”

“You do make a convenient scapegoat, though, especially since Selvig’s in hiding,” Stark says grimly. “If Fury can’t protect you from arrest, he presumably loses our tenuous loyalty. At which point the Council will kindly offer to release you in exchange for the Avengers dancing to their tune.”

Clint bursts out, “That’s the lamest plan I’ve ever _heard_. In what universe would _any_ of you agree-”

“Coulson’s tracking their communications,” Tasha is saying to Stark.

“-anyone could design something to contain the other guy, it’s Ross-”

“-need to know if they’ve actually issued the warrant or just-”

“-Ross would probably contact Bruce directly, to offer an exchange,” Steve says, eyes narrowed.

“But you _wouldn’t_ ,” Clint protests. “That’s-” he cuts himself off as every single eye focuses on him.

There’s silence as they all exchange glances. Finally, Tasha sighs, cuffs him on the back of his head and murmurs what Clint guesses is ‘dumbass’ in either Ukranian or Latvian. He recognizes the Russian for dumbass from frequent exposure. Bruce is wearing a small smile by the time Hill extracts herself from the locals and appears on the edge of their circle.

“We’re cleared to leave,” she says briskly. There’s a beat, then Stark smiles a shark’s smile. _Okay_ , Clint thinks, _we’re not letting Hill in on this_.

“Actually, Agent,” he says, “we first have to hold our traditional post-battle supper club.”

“I thought we were calling it the Victor’s Repast,” Clint says, playing along because no-one else will.

“No,” Stark replies without missing a beat, “That was _Thor’s_ suggestion and like all of Thor’s suggestions it was horrible. I refuse to be a part of anything that sounds like Elizabethan dinner theatre-”

“Negate his vote just because he’s not here to defend it, Stark?” Natasha raises a brow at him.

“Damn straight,” Tony grins, a sharp slice of white teeth amongst the goatee.

“I’m not sure that’s a great precedent to set, Tony,” Steve frowns, but turns and falls into step at Stark’s side without glancing at Hill. Clint shouldn’t be surprised that Cap’s not too bad at subterfuge, but actually he’s more like _shocked_. “It’s important for team members to feel their input is still valued even if they’re not actually around...”

Hill is blinking at all of them, bemused.

“Don’t look at me,” Clint says, and spreads his hands, “I voted it be called, Woo, We Didn’t Die Today Dinner but did anybody back me up?”

“I did,” Bruce replies, clearly trying not to laugh. “Though I’m kind of inarticulate post-battle so it probably just sounded like snoring. Also, that’s a really bad acronym.”

“Because PBSC is _so catchy._ ”

“Let’s go,” Tasha says, “if you let Stark get too much of a head start he assumes everyone has already agreed with every word out of his mouth.”

“Which is how it came to be called post-battle supper club in the first place, _yeah_ , I remember now,” Clint exclaims as they stride off after the others and leave Hill stranded in the middle of the tent. “Just because we went to _his_ shwarma place...”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it occurred to me today that the plot twist in this chapter is something I have seen somewhere before. I hunted it down, and I have indeed read something similar (though way better) in Hollow Your Bones Like A Bird by scifigrl47. Sorry. I am only familiar with the Avengers via the movie-verse, so my knowledge isn't all that extensive.  
> If you haven't yet read this fic http://archiveofourown.org/works/632488 I suggest you run straight there, because it is completely kick-ass and waaay better than this one. Also, it's finished.


	9. Broken

 

 

Because Avenging is hungry work, they do actually end up in a restaurant. Because Stark is Stark, they end up in some amazing place with a view of the water and gorgeous sukiyaki, though they drink considerably less of the sake than it would seem at first glance. That’s Rogers – alcohol-proof serum-boy as Stark is calling him now – taking one for the team as the wide-eyed staff linger at the edges of the room.

“Ugh,” Steve says, and downs his ninth sake in six minutes, “God, please can we stop now?” he scrubs a hand over his face.

“Sadly, Cap, no. This place is well aware of my alcohol tolerance.”

Clint shrugs and pours some more, distributing glasses around the table like an overcomplicated three card monte so that it looks like they’re all getting smashed. Circus skills are _awesome_.

“Can’t _some_ of it go in the waterglasses?” Steve asks plaintively as another alcoholic glass ends up in front of him.

“All right,” Stark says, eyes as sharp as his voice, “So Hawkeye and Banner here need to stay out of the clutches of American law enforcement til we can sort this mess out.”

“I like Japan,” Bruce says. “I could be happy here.” He looks defeated already, which Clint hates. Guy has been hunted enough, you know?

“Do not quit on me now, Banner,” Stark says.

“You know,” Steve says thoughtfully to the bottom of his latest empty sake glass, “back when I was first, well-”

“Captain America?”

“Yeah,” he says, pointing gratefully at Natasha. “Him. It was just all publicity. You know?”

“Yes,” Stark says slowly, “we’ve all seen the pictures, and the cards-” he cuts off abruptly and there’s an uncomfortable silence.

“Yeah,” Steve says, oblivious for once. “Pictures. Me shaking hands with whoever,” he waves a hand and Bruce leans back out of range. “Public opinion. S’important, no matter how much you might hate doing it.”

“I seem to have heard that from my board a time or two,” Stark says. He grins and motions for another bottle because he is _pure evil_.

“We’re pretty popular in Tokyo today,” Bruce says quietly. He takes mercy on Steve and tosses back one glass of sake. Clint would fucking _love_ a drink right now but it doesn’t mix with flying, _or_ with evading arrest. Except for that one time in Bruges.

“Yes, we are,” Tasha says. She is shaking her head at Steve, fighting back an admiring smile.

“Couldn’t hurt for everyone back at home to see us getting a warm welcome from another government,” Clint agrees. He looks across the table at Steve, his old-fashioned haircut falling across his face as he places his glass carefully down on the table, and it hits him, all at once, the idea and the image and the _audacity_ of it and he can’t help it, he laughs and sits forward in his chair.

“And then – you know what? There’s a place, Steve, that you should _absolutely_ visit. I would count it a personal honour to take you there, once we’re done putting on a show for the world’s media.”

Steve smiles at him, open and sunny and uncomplicated, and slightly less drunk than a few seconds ago. “Yeah?” he says. “That sounds great, Clint. Where are we going?”

Clint grins too, wide and a little mean. He leans back in his chair, hands behind his head and raises his eyebrows at Tasha, daring. “Cuba.”

Stark whistles as Banner starts to laugh. _“Cuba?_ That’s a ...creative solution. _”_ Clint tries not to flinch at that word. _Efficiency, creativity, ruthlessness._

“Not Guantanamo Bay?” Tasha says drily.

“Cuba,” Steve repeats, a little dreamily. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

“Genius, Barton,” Stark says, and pours another sake. He toasts Clint with a grin, “I’ll even teach you to tango.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

The photos of the Avengers accepting the thanks of a grateful city are splashed across every newspaper, blog and twitter feed by the end of the day. The impromptu Q&A doesn’t hurt, either. Steve manages to drop a few remarks about how the Avengers aren’t an American team, they’re here for anyone who needs them, and since he can’t _help_ but sound wholesome and earnest no matter what he’s saying, it all actually comes off as something that might even be true.

“The first time we assembled to fight as a team may have been in the USA,” Steve’s soundbite says on the evening news, “but we were defending far more than just one nation.”

“And ironically enough, that was the first time Captain America had ever fought on American soil, right Cap?” Stark chimes in.

“True,” Steve replies, offering Tony a grin. They’re the picture of easy camaraderie. “Despite the name I was given, all my battles actually took place overseas. It wasn’t about politics, it was about protecting human lives, no matter where.”

The questioning moves on, and Clint isn’t surprised when some of it comes his way. “Hawkeye, you were absent last month when the team fought another battle at home. There was speculation you’d left the Avengers. Any comment?”

“Unfortunately I wasn’t in New York at the time,” Clint says easily. It’s even the truth. “Believe me, I didn’t enjoy watching them have all the fun without me.”

“Mostly because anyone who misses a battle has to buy the drinks next time,” Stark offers, all teeth. He really is good at this when he wants to be.

“Which is _very_ bad news for Thor,” Clint adds, and there’s general laughter and then it moves on.

 

 

 

 

The slight feeling of achievement the team got from the press conference is overwhelmed by the shitload of awkward that they wade into back at the Quinjet. Because sitting in the back, talking in low, urgent tones, are Coulson and Hill.

They pause just inside the jet, exchanging glances.

“How did you get here so fast, Agent?” Stark asks. He sounds more hostile than even Clint feels, what the hell is up with _that?_

“I was already on the West Coast,” Coulson says, rising.

Clint spins away that that. Yeah. He needs to pull it together. He goes to the locker and retrieves his bag. At a glance, he tosses Tasha hers as well.

“Are we all on the same page here?” Rogers asks, eyeing Hill. Clint is beginning to tell the difference between Cap and Rogers and Steve, just like he can see the subtle changes between Stark and Tony. Banner, hilariously enough, is the only one who seems to stay the same in every situation.

Well. _Almost_ every situation.

“I’ve been ordered to bring the jet back to base asap,” Hill says. She looks unhappy.

“Well you’re welcome to return the jet,” Rogers says evenly, “but none of us are going to be on it.”

There’s a moment of silence, then Coulson says, nodding, “If you choose to remain here-”

“Actually we have a destination in mind,” Stark interrupts. “And there’s a private jet fuelled and ready half an hour from here.”

“Better than the military transport I would have been offering,” Coulson says with his trademark mildness. He was either expecting the hostility or he’s used to it by now. “You’ll need temporary travel documents-”

Clint draws his passport out of his bag and holds it up at the same moment as Tasha, prompting Stark to snicker. “Got yours, too, Doc,” Tasha says, and slides another passport out from behind hers, like a magic trick.

“You- you _stole my passport?_ ” Banner gapes.

“Does it seem stolen to you?” she deadpans, and tosses it to him. She glances over at Steve, eyes narrowing. “I couldn’t find-” she begins.

Steve, blushing, slides a hand inside the belt of his skintight uniform and, with difficulty, extracts his passport and a roll of bills. “I, uh. Always figure it’s best to be prepared for anything.”

“Didn’t think of looking there?” Banner murmurs slyly, and Tasha’s mouth quirks.

Stark is open-mouthed staring. “You are _kidding me_ – there is no way the laws of physics allow you find _anywhere_ to conceal your passport in _that_ -”

“Well, it seems everything here is being handled,” Coulson says, voice carefully light.

Clint has the stupidest impulse to tell him _we learned this kind of crazy-prepared from you_ , but it’s not his place to comfort Coulson. In fact those impulses are _exactly_ what put him in this situation in the first place. He’s gotten burned enough presuming they have some kind of relationship.

“I’m assuming you have a destination in mind?” Coulson raises an eyebrow.

“Cuba,” Tash answers, and Coulson almost smiles. For a moment Clint can see the _really, Barton?_ thought written all over his face, but he doesn’t say it, just processes all the implications in a half-second of silence. How Ross and – more importantly – his superiors the Joint Chiefs might react to the team visiting a nation right on the doorstep that would welcome the Avengers with open arms and never in any way assist SHIELD or the US Army.

Then he nods.

“Smart work,” Coulson says, and turns back to Hill.

 

 

 

 

Clint breathes deep and forces himself to man up and not flinch from Coulson when the man comes over to input some data into the jet’s systems to feed back to SHIELD. The others are conspicuously absent, and so he closes his eyes briefly, straightens and turns.

“How’s Susan?” he asks, proud of the way his voice comes out calm and even. It’s eating a hole in his gut to ask but no-one’s ever going to know it.

“Susan?” Coulson asks, turning, he blinks at Clint, and he honestly looks fucking _confused_ for a second. Then he blinks. Once, twice, and Clint sees his chest swell on a quick breath as comprehension breaks over Coulson’s face and he says, _“_ Oh, _Susan.”_

Clint doesn’t roll his eyes and say _yes, SUSAN, your fucking cellist_.

“I- I haven’t- I don’t,” Coulson stammers, and stops.

Clint blinks. _What?_ he thinks, but doesn’t say, because he is still processing a world where Phil Coulson _stammers_. Then the words just trip out, “But you- you said you were on the West Coast-”

“Oh,” Coulson says. “No, uh, that wasn't about Susan, that was, well- Ross. He’s been making contact with a Berkely-but, never mind. I... haven’t seen Susan. I don’t – I mean. The Director never notified her,” Coulson finishes quietly. “There didn’t seem to be any point in...” he swallows and shrugs.

“Oh.” Clint says. He feels like half of this conversation went missing during transmission, but there doesn’t seem to be anything else to say. He hefts his bag over his shoulder and strides out, feeling Coulson’s eyes on him the entire way.

 

 

 

 

 

Cuba is a blast, and in the end Ross’ little coup attempt fizzles out in truly embarrassing fashion when Thor blasts onto the scene in New Mexico once more and comes looking for his team. The renewed press interest makes the Joint Chiefs even twitchier about pissing off the kind of public figures the Avengers have become, and Thor wades through the sad Army contingent a defiant Ross puts between Thor and the rest of the team as though they were toddlers in a sandpit.

He arrives in a blaze of light and sound on the beach and strides up the sand like it’s his natural element.

The Cubans love Thor, of course, the ebullient way he talks and gestures and eats and drinks and dances (and screws, Clint presumes, but they’re spared those kinds of details because Jane is still en-route by the time the warrants are voided and they all fly home).

“Master of the Bow!” is how Thor greets Clint. “It is good to see you again.”

“Hey, Thor,” Clint says lamely, and submits to the full-body hug – how does anyone avoid them, he wonders? Also, why would anyone want to? Thor is everyone’s favourite. “Good to have you back, buddy.” He pats the huge expanse of back and waits for his ribs to stop creaking. Damn, Jane must work out like crazy to keep up with this guy.

“Yeah, we, uh. Weren’t sure we were going to have the pleasure of your company again,” Bruce adds.

“My father is most pleased by the changes this realm hath wrought in me,” Thor says with pride. “He agrees that only good can come from more time spent among such company, and that it would go some way to repairing the damage wrought by Asgard on your fair world.”

Translation: _yes, you can visit your girlfriend if you don’t fuck things up, and try to clean up your brother’s mess while you’re at it_ , Clint thinks. Parenting tactics are apparently universal, no matter what realm you inhabit – or rule over.

“I _like_ this Cuba,” Thor confides, gesturing widely. “Midgard is a realm of such variety – my mother, in particular, would enjoy it, I wager.”

“Everybody likes Havana,” Tony says sagely, mouth quirking the way it always does when Thor is speaking. Or eating, or gesturing or anything, really.

“We should drink!” Thor suggests, and drinks just _appear_. (Thor really is everybody’s favourite, even the bar staff.) “To those who cannot be with us this day,” he intones, and everyone else rolls their eyes, lifts their glasses and says, _To Jane!_ which startles Thor into a roar of laughter. “Aye, I am transparent, I fully admit.”

“To Pepper,” Tony adds, not to be outdone.

“And to the Warriors Three,” Thor adds, “The Lady Darcy, and Friend Eric.”

“This is quite the drinking game,” Tasha murmurs to Clint and Banner, watching Steve gamely try to keep up with Thor. Cap seems to be enjoying the local brew better than the sake.

“And to those who are lost to us,” Thor adds, his face darkening, “To the son of Coul!” he raises his tankard – a fucking _tankard_ , in _Cuba?_ – and everyone freezes and no-one drinks.

“Shit,” Stark says softly, eyes darting around the table. Clearly no-one had-

“Yeah, not so much, Thor old buddy,” Clint says, pushes back from the table and stalks away.

 

 

 

Thor finds him an hour or so later, much subdued, and apparently sober. He settles in on the sand next to Clint and stares out across the ocean, the endless ebb and flow.

“I do not understand this,” Thor says. Not much for small-talk, is the God of Thunder.

“You and me both.”

“The Son of Coul is an honourable man,” Thor says, puzzling through it. “He fights to safeguard this world, shows courage and skill... I do not know why such a man would disrespect his fellow warriors in this way.”

Clint shakes his head. “He puts a lot of trust in Fury,” he says finally. “I think this time it bit him in the ass.”

Thor turns his head to look at Clint, thinking this over. Then he shakes his head, as if dismissing it for now. “Friend Stark tells me you have parted ways with the warriors of SHIELD.”

“Yup.”

“And now you wander the realm, seeking a new purpose, never forsaking your shield brothers in the Avengers. It is a noble path you choose, friend Barton.”

Clint blinks. That certainly frames his current breakdown in a different way. Dr Del Rey is going to _love_ that.

“Um. Thanks?”

Thor is silent for a long while. The waves roll in and out, unmoved by it all.

“Betrayal from one you have trusted so deeply is not easily overcome,” he says quietly, and Clint just tries to breathe and _not panic_ at knowing Thor is thinking of his brother, of the demigod that enslaved Clint and stole his will, his _heart_ so easily, _so fucking easily_ -

“You show your true nature in this, Hawkeye, and it does you credit,” Thor adds. “You offer no harm to others, nor petty revenge against the one who caused you pain.”

Clint swallows and squints at the horizon. “Yeah,” he croaks out finally, “I don’t know if I really deserve all that much credit.” He shrugs. “I’m just putting one foot in front of the other right now.”

Thor stands, then, and Clint is hauled to his feet. Strong hands grip his arms, broad shoulders block his view until he has no choice but to meet Thor’s eyes. “A man in such pain is a man put to the test,” he says, and for the first time Clint really feels himself to be in the Presence of a _God_ , the truth in that rumbling voice undeniable.

“You pass through the fire, Clint Barton, and reveal yourself to be a man of worth, a protector, one whose heart is pure. Know that I am proud to call you shield brother, today and for all the days of my life.”

Clint sways on his feet, a little unsteady. _What?_

“You,” he begins feebly, then drags in a huge breath and gathers his shit together because his gut tells him this is _huge_. Heart hammering, he chokes out, “You – you honour me, Thor Odinson.”

Thor releases Clint’s arm and offers one hand, held between their chests. Clint eyes it, lifts his gaze to meet Thor’s blue eyes, and grips it tightly, nodding.

“Aye,” Thor says, “I do indeed, Hawkeye.”

 

 

 


	10. Forlorn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the change in rating, and the tags.

 

 

It takes Clint an embarrassingly long time to realize he is being given an unmistakable once-over by the bartender. He blinks, gives himself a second to let his brain recalibrate and then takes a long slow breath before he reaches for the bottle of beer being offered across the bar. He lets their fingers brush and glances up, enjoys the solid eye contact before the guy gives a tiny nod, and goes back to work.

Clint is left staring at the bottle in his fingers. He hasn’t done anything like this in _years_ , not even in an anonymous club in San Fran, let alone somewhere as unremarkable as this mid-size town in Michigan. Hadn’t allowed himself.

It’s not like SHIELD would have cared, not like _Coulson_ would have cared, as far as Clint knows. But he’d been so fucking terrified of doing anything that might lead someone to the right conclusion – lead someone to see that Barton’s attachment to his handler went waaaay beyond simple loyalty and teamwork.

 _Such a fucking coward_ , Clint thinks suddenly, and his hand clenches around the neck of the bottle.

He drinks the beer in silence, staring down moodily, and isn’t surprised when Cute Bartender comes back and says warily, “Want another?” instead of smiling. Clint’s pretty sure he’s projecting _homicidal rage_ right now instead of _casual hookup_. Right when he actually _wants_ to be approachable, of course.

He takes another deep breath and shakes his head. “No,” he says calmly, and looks the guy right in the eye. “Don’t really want to get wasted tonight.”

The guy absorbs that thoughtfully. “Got other plans?” he asks, eyes steady on Clint.

“Not yet,” he says, and waits.

There’s a tiny twitch at the corner of the guy’s mouth and damn, he is _mouth-watering_. Clint lets himself smile back a little and then the guy shifts his weight to one hip and says, “Well I’m stuck here until closing, sadly.”

“Yeah? How late is that, exactly?”

“Midnight.”

Clint nods. “Right. Well.” He pushes the empty back across the bar. “I’m gonna take a walk.”

The bartender nods back, eyes sliding down to Clint’s hands, lingering. “Nice night for it.”

“Maybe I’ll drift back this way,” he adds, giving the guy a chance to close him down, because maybe Clint freaked him out a little with the brooding back there.

“Make sure you do,” the guy says, and Clint straightens with a grin, taps the bar once with his fingers and leaves with a spring in his step.

He breathes deep as he walks, thinking things over, wondering if he’s ready for this.  Then he stops in at a local pharmacy and buys a few supplies that have the guy behind the counter smirking at him. Clint ignores the guy, pays for his stuff and goes back to his hotel room. He takes a long shower and preps himself, thinking about the last time he did anything like this, back before Natasha, before everything got so good that it inevitably went to shit. It had been some anonymous guy in a club, bass thumping through Clint’s sternum and a hot mouth around his cock turning his knees liquid.

By the time he lets himself out of the room he is thrumming with low-level arousal, keyed up in a way he’d almost forgotten he could feel. _Please let this guy be as good as he looks_ , Clint thinks, and slides inside the near-empty bar in the midst of a huge exiting group of back-slapping sports fans.

The bartender is nowhere in sight, and Clint automatically heads for a spot with good sightlines that is co-incidentally tucked around a corner. A minute later the taller man reappears, his arms full of those god-awful flavoured vodka cocktails that are so popular with groups of girls on the prowl. Clint sees his careful appraisal of the bar, the slump of his shoulders at not seeing Clint, and he hadn’t done it on purpose, but he’s definitely hiding out now.

A low-talking couple make their way to the door from the corner and the bartender glances up at the sound of the door, watching carefully. When no-one new enters, he lets out a slow breath and turns back to what he was doing.

The door opens once more, and it’s clearly the waitress’ ride home. “Zeke,” the newcomer says, and the bartender nods back. The burly newcomer just leans back against a booth, arms folded, and waits. Zeke’s shoulders are slumped now, and Clint is starting to feel like a dick, so he leans forward enough to make himself visible and waits.

The waitress has finished wiping down the tables now, and she says something to Zeke, probably indicating the only customers left in the bar- Clint and an old, denim-jacketed dude. Zeke lifts his head in a hurry, glances over and locks eyes with Clint. His lips twitch and he shakes his head. _Dick move, man_ , he mouths, and Clint grins like a kid and leans back again.

 

 

 

The waitress has left, denim jacket guy has stumbled outside, the door locked behind him. Zeke, starting from the far end of the bar, starts upending chairs onto tables, making his way toward Clint, who rises and starts taking care of the chairs at his own end. They meet in the middle, a quiet space dotted with chair legs like a tiny, pointy forest.

“Hey,” the bartender says. He’s tall - _really_ tall, actually - and beautifully built, carries himself with squared shoulders like Clint’s seen a hundred times before. Ex-military of some type, but there’s no sharp edges so – standard service. His eyes are dark and fathomless, hair just long enough to curl at his collar and he’s grinning at Clint like Santa showed up in the middle of July.

“Hey.”

“I’m Zeke.”

“Clint.”

It takes a half-second and then Zeke quirks his mouth and says, “So I guess you’re gonna make my day?”

Clint groans. “Oh, you did _not_ just-”

“Come on, you must get that-”

“Not for a long, _long_ time,” he says, “and let me tell ya, _never_ when-” and Zeke is laughing as he leads Clint to the door.

“Not sexy, you’re saying?”

Clint shakes his head, lips twitching as he steps out onto the quiet street.

Zeke shrugs good naturedly. “Fair enough,” and locks the door, gives the handle a shake to check it. He turns then, and his eyes sweep the length of Clint’s body. “Something tells me we can manage without the fake sexy talk.”

Clint’s body prickles hot all over. “Yeah,” he manages. “I think we’ll do okay.” They fall into step, bantering the whole way back to Zeke’s apartment, and it’s all so easy.

 

 

 

Half-hour later he’s writhing under Zeke, skin tight and hot and filled up just right when it happens, he feels it, shit, he feels fucking _everything_ ,all at once. Clint drags in a shuddering breath and tries to batter it back, an onslaught of emotion that he’s been pushing down and away for months and months, for fucking _years_.

“Oh _God_ ,” Clint chokes out.

Zeke stops mid-thrust, “You okay?” and Clint shakes his head stupidly.

“Don’t stop.”

“Clint, are you-”

“Yeah, fine, come _on_ ,” he says, desperate. He wants this, wants to feel normal, the way he did years ago, wants to _forget_.

But Zeke doesn’t move and Clint’s fists clench on the sheets. He can’t stand it, if _this_ is fucked up for him now, too-

Then Zeke says calmly, “You can say his name.”

Clint jolts back against Zeke, hisses at the sensation as the hot length inside him presses further, lights him up. “What-”

“You can say his name.” Zeke’s forehead presses against Clint’s shoulder as he says softly, “It’s okay.” He swallows audibly, “I understand.”

For a moment there’s just Clint’s wild panting, then he shakes his head, hard. “No,” he grits out, eyes stinging from the unexpected onslaught of grief and rage and guilt, “There’s no-”

“You can say it. It’s just you and me here. I’ve got you.”

Clint swallows, shocked to find he’s shaking from so much more than just desire.

“It’s okay, I’ve got you,” Zeke croons, leaning down to blanket Clint with his body. He clasps one long arm around Clint’s torso, warm and unconfining, fingers splayed across Clint’s ribs. “Clint, it’s okay to let go,” he says softly.

And fuck if that isn’t the thing that does it, Clint lets out a hoarse cry and shudders under Zeke. _“Phil,”_ he moans helplessly, voice breaking, “ah Christ, _Phil._ ”

And Zeke is moving again, burning him up from the inside out and it’s so good, Clint is broken open with the pleasure and the freedom and the wonder of being known. They find a rhythm again and he forgets to reign himself in, lets the words drop freely as they will, pleas and promises and incoherent moans, and the name of a man he no longer knows. Zeke’s breath is coming in sobs, low and rough with a grunt underneath.

“Shit, Zeke,” he gasps, “I’m-”

“ _Yeah_ ,” Zeke moans against Clint’s shoulder, a hint of teeth and the world is ablaze with bursts of light.

 

 

 

There’s silence in the aftermath, Zeke slides away carefully and Clint closes his eyes and tracks the small movements, rustle of the sheets, condom hitting the trash can in the bathroom, softly padding footsteps returning.

He’s completely unmoored.

Zeke slides into bed beside him and Clint can feel his face burning. He’d fucking – he’d _cried_ , or near as dammit – during a _one night stand_. He’d called another man’s name- _Jesus_.

What is _wrong_ with him?

He can feel the other man’s hesitation as he stretches out at Clint’s side, and tries for a light touch, see if this can be salvaged. “I guess you got the memo,” Clint croaks into his pillow. “I’m bringing sexy back.”

He can _feel_ Zeke smile. The warm body to his right rolls closer until they’re pressed together all the way down their bodies. Clint is suddenly reminded he’s lying in the wet spot. “Yeah you are,” he says without a trace of irony and Clint flinches.

“Oh Jeez, don’t do that, man. Don’t be fucking- _kind_.”

“Kind?” Zeke sounds confused.

“I’m – look, I’m not _actually_ a headcase, okay, I do get that I acted like a total freak back there-”

“Hey, no-”

“And I like, completely fucked up all the rules of one night stands-” he risks a sideways glance.        

“There are rules?” Zeke asks, brows high.

“Piss off,” Clint says tiredly, “You know what I mean.”

“Hey- Zeke says, reaching out to still Clint’s swift roll toward the edge of the bed. “Don’t. Don’t go.”

The hand around Clint’s wrist is a gentle restraint and he stops, goes silent.

There’s nothing for a while, then Zeke blows out a long breath and says softly, “I used to be a Lieutenant in the Navy.”

Clint blinks at the change of subject, then says, “Yeah, I figured something like that.”

Zeke tugs gently and Clint goes back down, their bodies close in the dark, both of them staring up at the ceiling. “It was good,” Zeke says, “a lot of it was great, actually. Except for the part where I fell helplessly in love with my Captain.”

Clint goes still as Zeke huffs out an unamused laugh. “Yeah. Ten year age difference, fraternization regs, commanding officer, and the guy was so straight he didn’t even indulge in friendly handjobs in the communal showers.”

Clint winces.

“Oh and did I mention he was happily married with three kids?” There’s real pain there, Clint recognizes the self-mocking tone that’s the only way to cope with having just no hope. None at all.

“That why you got out?”

He feels Zeke shrug. “Among other reasons.”

“I’m sorry,” Clint says.

He shrugs again. There’s quiet for a while, and then he says “It’s been three years since I’ve seen him, and I still can’t pass a goddam Coors light across the bar without a lump in my throat. Still can’t control my freakin’ heartbeat when I see some burly Irish type with salt-and-pepper hair.”

“Yeah,” Clint says shakily. “I got it bad and it ain’t good.”

 

 


	11. Mend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to say how much I'm loving all the wonderful comments I'm receiving. I will try to reply to as many as i can but I'm assuming you'd rather I finish the story first?
> 
> ETA: I forgot to add my mental casting note. For me, Joe Manganiello is Zeke. Specifically, this pic http://tinyurl.com/p6rvpx6

 

 

They spend lazy hours in bed, then, once Clint gets cleaned up a little and finally shifts out of the wet spot. He finally manages to fall asleep long after Zeke, catches a few good hours and wakes up horny as a teenager.

“My turn,” Zeke murmurs against Clint’s mouth and he nods, screwing up the kiss but they’re both smiling so it hardly matters. Three fingers in and Zeke’s saying _yeah, Clint, c’mon_ and shoving a condom at Clint and he grins.

“These are, like, clues you’re giving me, right? No, wait, don’t tell me, I’ll figure it out.”

“Asshole,” Zeke moans, ridiculously affectionate, slides on top of him and Jesus _God_ he is a thing of beauty in the weak morning light streaming through the blinds, the long lean length of him working down over Clint’s cock. Clint controls his breathing and grips Zeke’s thighs, then strokes lightly, he doesn’t know where the hell to put his eyes because everywhere he looks is fucking gorgeous, and Clint tells him so.

“Flatterer,” Zeke says with a grin as he starts to move, nice and slow. “I knew,” he breathes in deep, “you’d make my day.”

“Shut _up_ ,” Clint, moans, slaps Zeke’s thigh and focuses on the tight heat around him. His eyes close in concentration, and when he forces them open a few minutes later he frowns, watchful. Zeke is enjoying himself, sure, but there’s something... Clint thrusts up sharply, experimental, and Zeke’s throat flutters, but he clenches his hands into fists and seems to settle again. Clint frowns again.

“Wait,” he says. “Hold on.”

Zeke opens his eyes and looks down.

“This isn’t doing it for you,” Clint says.

Zeke raises an eyebrow and glances down at his hard dick. “Uh-”

“Never bullshit a bullshitter,” Clint says. “What do you want.”

He shrugs. “Nothing, this is good.”

Clint’s eyes narrow. _No fucking way_ , he thinks grimly, and nudges Zeke off with careful hands. Then he rears up, unhesitating, and puts the bigger guy on his back. Clint doesn’t miss the quick intake of breath from Zeke when Clint crawls up over him, and when he looks up, there’s a flush rising in the other man’s cheeks.

“Tell me,” he demands softly.

Zeke swallows, and Clint recognizes that look. The guy wants to say and just doesn’t- the words _won’t come_.

“All right,” he says, reassuring. “All right.” He straightens, still kneeling between Zeke’s knees and then he runs his eyes all over that gorgeous body. “Jesus,” he says, runs his hand down one long, muscular thigh, “you’re big.”

Zeke’s eyes meet his, face flushing.

“You’re probably bigger and stronger than almost anybody you meet, huh?” Clint says, trailing the tips of his fingers around to trace the tender skin behind one knee, and watches the way Zeke swallows and his eyes flick away.

Clint moves forward, crawls up Zeke’s body and brackets him with arms and legs, lets his chest brush over the other man’s torso. “You ever get tired of that?” he asks softly. He lets his lips brush gently over Zeke’s mouth, drag across to his ear as he talks. “You ever get sick of being the big, strong guy, the one everyone assumes wants to be in charge?”

Zeke inhales sharply and his eyes fly to meet Clint’s level gaze.

“You ever want someone to just- _manhandle_ you, Zeke? Put you where they want you and just-” he bites down gently, deliberately on Zeke’s bottom lip, hears the choked inhale and smiles, secret and dirty as the body under his twitches.

He pulls back enough for Zeke to see his face and narrows his eyes. “You’re in luck, sailor,” he says softly, “because my workout routine lately has been, well... insane, and I have built up some serious stamina.” He bends to kiss Zeke, a first gentle brush and then he wraps his hands around the other man’s wrists, grips tight and just goes to town, tongue fucks him mercilessly while Zeke surges beneath him, moaning helplessly.

When Clint raises his head they’re both panting. He uses his grip on Zeke’s wrists to raise them above his head and presses them to the headboard. “You’re gonna grip here,” Clint grits out, and watches to see if that’s gonna be enough. He’s not about to experiment with bondage in the heat of the moment with a virtual stranger. “Hold on and don’t let go until I say you can let go. Got it?”

Zeke nods, panting and wild-eyed. “Yeah,” he moans, “shit, yeah, I can-”

Clint in hales sharply through his nose at seeing the state Zeke is in and he hasn’t even _started_ yet.

“I’m gonna _mess you up_ , sweetheart,” he croons, and Zeke groans and grips the headboard tight.

“Shit,” he pants out, “oh shit.”

Clint slides down Zeke’s body slowly, making contact the entire way. The other man’s in a place now where the tease will only make it better, and so he lets himself move further, chest to belly, further, then says, “Don’t move,” like it’s a threat and then slides his mouth down over Zeke’s cock.

“ _Je_ sus,” Zeke grits out, and Clint sucks slow and easy while he snakes one hand across the bed for lube, slicks himself up again, extra wet and nasty because he wants to be sure, no matter how rough he threatens to be, that no-one’s actually getting hurt.

Then he slides off, raises up to his knees and takes hold of Zeke’s hips. “How long have you wanted this,” Clint asks, conversational as he lines up. “Zeke? How long,” he slips the head in and waits there, till the other man opens his eyes and looks at Clint, chest heaving. “How long have you wanted someone to just,” his fingers tighten, “throw you down and fucking _hammer_ it into you?”

Zeke’s eyes are blown as he stares up at Clint. “Years,” he gasps out. “Shit, _years_.”

Clint smiles thinly, and slams home.

Zeke howls, throws his head back and tightens his grip on the headboard and Clint just fucking goes for it, deep sure strokes with no mercy. He watches Zeke, the way the other man bows his body into an arc beneath Clint, begging for it without words, face and chest flushed deep red.

“I’ve got you,” Clint grunts out, “You’re, Jesus, you’re _beautiful_ , shit, feel you.”

“Clint,” Zeke gasps, arching up into every stroke, “yes, yeah-”

Clint stares down at the man beneath him, at ease with his own body and the desires that stir under the skin and he knows in that moment he can’t go back, can’t keep lying, has to at least reach for this, this freedom, whatever way he can.

“Fuck,” he moans, feels Zeke tighten around him as he slams back in, breath gone, nothing but instinct, and he follows the other man up and over the edge, tumbling far, tumbling free.

 

 

 

After round two they shower, soft and hazy in the steam and the heat and then Zeke slides into the kitchen and starts making breakfast, easy as you like. Clint stares for a second, bemused, then walks down the block to pick up a paper and some fresh bread. He lets himself back into the apartment to find the table set, coffee brewing, smell of bacon in the air. Zeke ambushes him next to the front door and kisses Clint like he has nothing else to do all day, and when he pulls back they’re both flushed and grinning.

They eat breakfast in relative silence, flipping through the paper, and it stretches into a lazy, languid morning. Clint ends up sprawled out on the living room floor with the sports section and another cup of coffee while Zeke reads the news of the world on the couch.

Clint gets up to rinse off his empty cup and then wanders to the window. Late morning sunshine spills in through the open blinds, and he breathes, long and slow, reaches up carelessly to run a hand through his hair, down to cup his nape and there’s a noise that has him glancing over at his shoulder toward Zeke.

Zeke, who is staring at Clint with the oddest look on his face.

“What?”

He gets a long, thoughtful blink. “Nothing. Just. You looked- for a second you seemed so familiar,” Zeke says slowly, staring at Clint’s face, at the arm stretched up above his head, hand reaching toward the opposite shoulder blade. It’s almost identical, Clint realizes in a burst, to the way he pulls an arrow from the quiver, probably why it’s so habitual and soothing.

It’s also the most widely published picture of _“Hawkeye”_. The shaky shots that had peppered the media and internet from the Battle of New York hadn’t particularly outed Clint, who was far less interesting than Iron Man and Captain America and the Hulk, but there had been one, snapped by an amateur enthusiast stuck on the 39 th floor of one of the half-destroyed buildings.

It was a profile shot of Clint on the rooftop, mid-draw, his last arrow still just visible at the edge of the frame, flying straight at a Chitauri airbike. His biceps had their own fan club, apparently. And a tumblr.

Clint freezes. This has- well, he’s only been recognized once or twice, but he’s been getting this don’t-I-know-you-from-somewhere stuff a fair bit more often, especially since he left New York. Turns out he has one of those faces.

“Uh-” he says. And abruptly lowers his hand to his side.

Zeke’s eyebrows go up. “Uh?” he parrots back, a smile beginning to play around his mouth. He rolls to his feet and strolls over to join Clint at the window, eases in close.

“I don’t know, um,” and _shit_ , he is a miserable fucking liar in these kinds of situations. Not like he’s been planning to lie to Zeke, but, uh. Somehow saying _Uh, yeah, actually-_ _I’m Hawkeye_ would feel _ridiculous_ now, like boasting or something similar. He’d had no problem in the ring, craving every eye on his act, has gotten used to attention in the field and on the range at SHIELD, and he can fake his way through an undercover op no problem, but not this. Not real life stuff.

Zeke’s face goes through an odd transformation and he tips his head to one side. “You’re look like you’re about to jump out the window rather than keep talking,” he says, amused.

“I-”

He leans in close, nuzzling Clint’s throat. “Ssh,” he says, low and rough. “One night stand, remember, Mr Stickler-for-the-Rules? You don’t owe me any explanations.”

Clint breathes, slow and steady, and wonders what he did to deserve such easy acceptance from a stranger.

 

 

 

His phone goes off late that afternoon, in the midst of a lazy makeout session. He answers, stiffens, and gives a few one-word answers, not sure if he’s pissed to have this interlude cut short or relieved not to have to create an actual exit strategy.

By the time he hangs up Clint’s made up of equal parts adrenaline and regret.

“I, uh. Have to go,” he says, sliding out from under Zeke. “Work.”

“Assembling?” Zeke asks on a yawn and Clint freezes, half-on, half-off the couch.

“Whuh.”

“Yeah, you’re considerably more memorable than you imagine yourself to be, _Hawkeye,_ ” Zeke mumbles, laughing. He runs a hand up Clint’s arm, warm and affectionate.

“You _knew?_ ”

“Only this morning.”

“You.” Clint sinks down to sit on the side of the couch, staring.

He really doesn’t know what the hell to say so he’s kind of relieved when Zeke shifts, clears his throat and says, “So. I guess you have to go?”

“Yeah,” Clint says, distracted. “Uh. I’ve got about half an hour, they were already en-route from California. I have to- my things are at a hotel.”

“Come on, then,” Zeke says practically. “I’ll drive you.”

 

 

 

“So... you’re a celebrity,” Zeke says. He folds his arms and leans back against the Jeep, which Zeke has offered to park out the back of the bar until Clint can collect it.

Clint flinches, “Oh Jesus Christ _no_ I am _not_ -” and then he stops because Zeke, he’s _grinning_ , the absolute shit. “No,” Clint says, scowling. “No way.”

“I don’t know,” Zeke says thoughtfully, “I mean, there’s a definite chance of a magazine photo shoot in your future which is kind of the definition-”

Clint shudders. “ _No_ – no _way_ , that’s what Cap and Stark are for.”

Zeke shrugs. Then his eyes run over Clint and he grins again, though it’s predatory and appraising this time. “Well, if it _does_ ever happen just promise me something...”

The back of Clint’s neck is hot when he asks, “What?” warily.

Zeke leans in close. “Roll up your sleeves,” he says against Clint’s lips. “And if you decide to get back out there and hit the clubs, same rules apply.”

Clint blinks. _What?_

“What?” he says blankly.

Zeke shoves his hands in his pockets and grins, smug and knowing. “Just trust me,” he says, and then they both glance up because that’s the sound of jet, right on cue.

Clint glances down in time to see it happen, Zeke straightens his posture – probably unconsciously, Navy boy that he is – and all the lazy flirtation just melts out of his expression. In half a second he’s just a buddy, seeing Clint off, that’s all.

Fuck _that_ , Clint thinks, suddenly vicious for no reason at all.

“You in the closet?” he has just enough brain to ask before he moves.

“What? No-” Zeke begins, and then Clint has him by the shirt and is kissing him, slow and sweet and thankful for what this man has given him. He’s not done by the time the jet has actually touched down, though he has drawn back by the time the ramp is all the way open. He stays close to Zeke, though. Bull _shit_ he’s going to act ashamed, or even give Zeke the slightest reason to feel like he’s a dirty little secret.

Clint’s not sure why he’s so furious all of a sudden. S’not like anyone ever made him hide this part of himself, he’d done _that_ all on his own.

When he glances up, Tash is regarding Zeke narrowly, while Rogers blushes and Banner laughs quietly – at Cap, Clint’s pretty sure. Standing behind all of them, _of fucking course_ , is a blank-faced Phil Coulson. Clint can just make out the silhouette of Sitwell in the cockpit, the only one not watching this little scene.

Zeke takes in a long slow breath and says, “Okaaay. It was a little easier to joke about when they weren’t standing _right there_.”

“Relax,” Clint says, glad for his turn at being a smartass. “Tasha’s the only one likely to kill you.”

To Zeke’s credit, he only clears his throat and shuffles his feet on hearing that. From the side of his mouth he murmurs, “Please tell me Captain America bats for our team,” and then adds quickly, “And _doesn’t_ have super-hearing.”

Clint snorts. “Jury’s still out,” he says, and hefts his go-bag over his shoulder. “On both.”

“Okay,” Zeke says, clearly resigned to the fact that Clint’s an asshole. He glances sidelong at Clint. “Also? I think you’re underestimating the guy in the suit’s desire to put me in a shallow grave.”

Clint manages not to react. Then Zeke says softly, “So... what’s his name?”

Clint shakes his head and looks away. His fists clench, he can’t even help it.

“O-kay,” Zeke says, _“okay.”_ He takes a long breath and glances back up at the jet. “I won’t hold you up. Take care out there, okay Clint? I want to see you named Sexiest Man Alive within the next three years, and no extra badass scars on that body of yours when it happens.”

Clint tries for a smile as he glances sideways up at Zeke. “So this is goodbye, huh?”

Zeke gifts him a slow, gorgeous smile back. “I think you know how much I would love to see you walk through my door again, anytime.” Then his face goes serious. “But I don’t think I’m what you’re looking for.”

Clint nods once, mouth twisting. “Thank you,” he says. “Seriously. You _ever_ need anything, you call me, okay?”

Zeke nods, once, clasps Clint’s proffered hand hard and steps back. “Same goes.”

The last glimpse Clint gets of Zeke he’s smiling faintly, hand raised in farewell.

 

 


	12. Injury

 

 

 

Phil leans back from the screen and stretches his neck to the side, listening to the ominous cracking sounds with a grimace. Happens every time. He pulls up footage of Barton, and half an hour later finds himself leaning forward in an extremely non-ergnomic posture, transfixed.

It’s been happening since well before Phil made the worst mistake of his life.

He really should have known, even back then. Because even drugged and injured, he should have trusted his instinct that dying was never a way out of the mess he’d made for himself. The really unforgivable part, though, is that he’s clearly messed things up for Barton just as much as himself, and that he had _never_ intended, would never have knowingly allowed. Phil takes a slow, deliberately even breath as the image of Cl- _Barton_ wrapped around a hot ex-Navy Lieutenant flashes through his head. Again.

Not my business. Not my place. Not _mine_.

He’d looked better. Had walked back onto the jet, head up, eyes clear, lips twitching at something Banner murmured as they passed. Whatever the stupidly tall bartender had, it had been exactly what Cl- _Barton_ needed.

Phil carefully unclenches his fists and lays them flat on the desk. The puzzle, really, is Romanov. She’d hardly reacted. Well. Not like a lover. Was it an open relationship, then? Phil had very carefully never cast his eyes in that direction. He knew himself too well to believe that he could casually check on Cl- _Barton’s_ private life and keep any kind of professional distance. It had been a tacit, unspoken agreement. They wouldn’t be obvious about sleeping together, and Coulson would keep SHIELD out of it.

Had his fake death somehow impacted _that_ , too?

The door to the security suite opens and he has to school his own expression swiftly, though he knows the Director will see too much anyway.

Fury closes the door silently and leans back against it. Their eyes meet. Phil waits a beat but there’s obviously nothing new on the battle the Avengers are currently fighting under Sitwell. Jasper will do fine. Phil trained him well, right down to the strong sense of right and wrong that have his protege so _very_ pissed that he still struggles to speak calmly to Phil as they smooth out the handover.

It’s why Phil’s not there, observing. His presence doesn’t help, it’s a hindrance.

“I’m leaving, Nick,” Phil says, and he hadn’t planned it but he knows it’s right.

There’s silence as they watch each other, complex conversations happening in that look. Then Fury heaves a sigh and straightens. “I’m not going to be able to talk you out of it, am I.”

“No,” Phil says simply. These are the advantages of knowing someone for an extremely long time. The disadvantage, of course, is of how much it hurts to break that kind of long-term loyalty.

There’s a long silence. Fury can’t see the screen from where he’s standing but somehow he knows anyway. “Barton?” he asks.

“Yes.”

Fury nods once, contemplative. “And if he says no?”

“Then I’ll need to move on,” Coulson replies very slowly, trying not to let that sink in too far because just the surface idea of it burns like fire. “Away from here,” he adds, because that part is obvious. SHIELD and Barton are intertwined for Phil.

Fury’s face tightens, then he nods slowly. “All right,” he says finally. “I’m sorry as hell it’s worked out like this, Phil.”

“You and me both, Director,” he said, though he is suddenly aware that Nick means _for SHIELD_ and Phil means _for Barton._ There has been a seismic shift of some kind in Phil’s worldview. He doesn’t care anymore. Not SHIELD, not the Director, not even the Avengers matter now. Not compared to Barton.

Doesn’t mean anything will change for Phil, of course. If what Barton wants is to keep going with his mysterious thing with Natasha, that’s fine, and honestly?

The idea of anyone choosing Phil Coulson over a Natasha Romanov – or a charming, if stupidly gigantic bartender – the idea is, frankly, ludicrious. Nevertheless, he has to try. And once Phil has repaired the damage his bad decisions caused, he’ll fade into the background.

Just like always.

Fury leaves, and Phil goes back to the tapes of Barton. Weeks of watching and he’s gotten nothing from the footage of Barton in the time span between Loki, and Phil’s resurrection. Absolutely _nothing_. Barton had functioned, had fought and practised on the range. He’d eaten, worked out, cycled through his days with the other Avengers without conveying a single genuine emotion as far as Phil could tell, even when he was with Tasha. The footage was public only, of course, and incidental stuff, like testing a new weapon or instructing on hand-to-hand techniques. There was nothing to indicate how the archer behaved in his private quarters, or alone with Romanov.

The very few shots Phil had found between the restaurant and Barton’s disappearance had told him... more. More but, _confusing_ more.

In his head Phil replays the scene from the restaurant. The nightmare of watching Barton put it all together – recognizing Coulson with disbelief, the slow disintegration of trust and belief as he’d put it all together. Tasha had knocked her arm against Clint, the kind of silent support that was the only kind of public display the two ever indulged in anymore.

But Barton had left _without_ Romanov. Hadn’t turned to her. It had taken a while, but Phil finally figured out where Barton had gone that night. This is the footage he hasn’t watched yet, and now... he swallows hard as it starts.

Barton stands in the middle of Phil’s old office, face ashen, eyes haunted. There’s no sound, which is frustrating, because it looks like Barton is saying something, face twisting in pain, and then he is climbing onto the desk, vanishing into the ducts like a wounded animal seeking refuge.

Phil pushes away from the chair with a sharp motion, and realizes a moment later that he is panting. He’s missing something. Something huge and fundamental.

How did he not know this about _Barton?_ This – this _thing_ that was killing his Agent, his archer, _his Barton_ and the kind of low-grade anxiety that’s plagued Phil ever since he looked down at a shiny blade protruding from his own chest, is taking over. He ducks his head and tries to breathe, ends up crouched half under the desk, trying not to bleed out, hand pressed over an invisible wound.

There’s a ringing in Phil’s ears and he‘s panting harshly, and then a few seconds later realizes the ringing is his phone and he answers on automatic, his voice sounding rough as he puts it to his ear and says, “Coulson.”

“Hudson General,” Sitwell’s voice says tightly. “Get there now.”

Phil is already moving, through the door and into the corridor. “Who,” he grates out, clattering down the stairwell, please no, please _please_ , “Jasper, _who_ -”

“It’s Barton,” Sitwell replies, and he sounds exhausted and grief-stricken. “Head injury. He’s not conscious, Phil.”

“I’m on my way,” he chokes out, shoves his phone in his pocket and _runs_.

 

 


	13. Expose

 

 

Tony hears movement in the hallway and steps out of the room, half-ready for more trouble. Instead he gets Agent Coulson, barrelling down the corridor at a dead run.

Tony blinks. He’s seen Coulson in a lot of different situations, but he’s never seen him look like _this_ \- face set, eyes blazing, tie flapping over his shoulder as he cuts his way through startled medical staff like Moses parting the Red Sea.

Coulson shoves past Tony without a word and into Barton’s room. Thor is leaning on Clint’s legs, Steve on Clint’s chest and despite the superior strength of both it’s a struggle to keep the blinded archer confined to the bed.

“ _MOVE_ ,” Coulson barks, and Tony is stunned to watch _Captain America_ obey instantly, responding to that tone of absolute command. The doctor – hovering nearby with the waiting syringe – flinches and presses himself against the wall, hard.

Tony doesn’t see exactly what Agent does to make Steve let go but his technique must be freaking _amazing_ because he’s suddenly just _there,_ leaning over Clint while Cap stumbles backwards. He’s obviously taken in Barton’s situation in one glance and he moves in close, no hesitation. Coulson presses one open-palmed hand to the side of Barton’s heavily bandaged head and the other over the archer’s chest.

Tony tenses, Thor makes an inarticulate noise of warning and Steve is already moving but it’s going to be way too late because Barton is _wild_ with panic and adrenaline and sure enough, his freed hands fly up and out and Coulson’s wrist is going to be _snapped like a fucking twig_.

Coulson watches it happen, breath coming fast, mouth set, ready for it, but just as Barton starts to apply real pressure to Coulson’s arm he falters, head turning as though his eyes could cut through the dressings that cover them, toward the hand cupping his cheek and he freezes. Coulson waits, his breath coming fast.

Barton’s fingers move, travelling deliberately over Coulson’s right hand, exploring. He turns his head a little more, nosing toward the wrist of the Agent’s other hand. He breathes in and then all at once the archer lets out a huge breath and everything about him eases. He squeezes the hand he’s clutching, not to hurt but somehow urgent, and Coulson brings their joined hands up to cup his own head and then nods slowly, deliberately, so that Barton can feel it happening.

_It’s me_.

“Sir?” Barton rasps, and it sounds painful.

Tony lets out a long, looong breath.

Holy _shit_.

He exchanges a glance with Steve and then Thor, who slowly releases the archer’s legs and steps back.

“Thank _fuck_ for that,” Tony says, and Steve nods fervently, which is the closest he’ll probably ever get to swearing himself.

Coulson is leaning his head close to Barton’s, foreheads touching, it’s painfully intimate and Tony is just officially fucking confused, okay, because how did the guy they’re seeing now _ever_ agree to snow Barton like that? Then Barton releases Coulson’s hand and brings his own up to his face, runs the side of his thumb down over his lips, the only part of his face that isn’t obscured.

“Tasha?” Coulson asks without moving.

“They hit her with some kind of tranquilizer, she’s sleeping it off now,” Steve reports. “But otherwise uninjured. Sitwell is with her, Bruce too.”

Coulson takes in a deep breath and then takes Clint’s hand, brings the thumb to his own lips, repeats the gesture and then shifts Clint’s hand so the archer can feel the smile he forces onto his face. Coulson nods slowly for good measure and everything about Barton relaxes. Tony catches a fleeting glimpse on the Agent’s face and _ohhhhh_. Also: _ohhhhhhhhhh_.

Fuck’s sake, this is just insane.

“Yeah,” Tony says, because he has no impulse control, everybody knows this, “they’re pretty damn close for exes.”

Coulson cuts his eyes toward Tony but doesn’t rise to the bait. Yeah, of course, it couldn’t be that simple, could it.

Tony can’t stop watching the way Barton is leaning into the Agent’s touch. It’s pretty clear the archer is concussed, on top of everything else, so it’s likely his memories are jumbled, or perhaps he’s running on pure instinct right now. And that instinct has him relying on Coulson. It’s like watching that day in the restaurant all over again, but reversed.

“His sight?” Coulson grits out, looking over at the doctor for the first time.

“We-” the doctor has to swallow a few times before he can answer, “We honestly don’t know. Those are dressings the paramedics applied in the field, we haven’t been able to examine him yet. His hearing, too, we won’t know until we take a look and run a few tests.”

Coulson urges Clint to lie back with one hand and as Tony watches, spells out D.O.C. on the palm of the archer’s hand. On the bed, Clint takes a deep breath and nods very slowly and carefully. Coulson looks up at the doctor and says, “You can bring your team in to examine him. If I can remain, he’ll be calm.”

The doctor eyes Coulson warily, then nods and leaves the room, presumably to find out if anyone in the entire hospital is prepared to come into this room, considering that Clint likely broke the cheekbone of the nurse that tried to take his blood pressure. Tony winces and makes a mental note to find out how she’s doing.

Coulson’s face is taut with worry. “What happened?” and this question is directed at Steve. It’s quite the mindfuck to see the return of _Agent Coulson_ demanding a report while at the same time Tony is pretty sure they’re watching _Phil_ hold on carefully to the most precious thing on this earth.

“We were almost done,” Steve reports, and runs a hand through his hair. “Then Tony, uh, described what we thought were civilians near Widow’s position. Clint seemed to recognize them.”

 “He rushed to her side before any of us knew his intentions,” Thor reports, and Tony watches the Agent nod fatalistically, like yeah, Barton will always rush to Romanov’s side which, fuck, is probably true, isn’t it.

So maybe the Agent _isn’t_ such an oblivious asshole because this shit is the facebook definition of _It’s Complicated_.

“He said Viper,” Tony says. Coulson stiffens. “Bad news?”

“Tasha tangled with them about four years ago,” Coulson says quietly, his eyes on Barton’s chest, the twitching fingers. He spells out V.I.P.E.R. on the archer’s palm and Clint clutches once, hard, Coulson pats his chest calmly as he tells the rest of them, “Killed their leader and his wife, but the rest of them went to ground. They’ve been gunning for her ever since.”

“You believe they used the distraction of battle to attack fair Widow?” Thor asks, eyes darkening. Ah Thor, last bastion of honor, no, okay, he and Steve tie for last bastion.

“It’d be about the only time they’d have a chance of taking her,” Tony replies, shrugging. “She’s no cupcake.” Steve’s mouth is tight and angry, if the Rebirth guys were naming him now it’d be Captain Vengeance.

“Why does Hawkeye not speak?” Thor asks, subdued. He hates these reminders that his teammates are vulnerable, breakable in a way a god can never understand.

“He can’t see or hear to know if we’re among friends, undercover or compromised. He can probably smell we’re in a hospital,” Coulson replies without looking away from the archer. “He’s not going to give away anything, not even a name, until he’s feeling more secure.”

 

 

 

Coulson then spends the next few hours glued to Barton’s bedside, to Tony’s utter confusion. The guy acts like a faithful goddam hound or something, protecting the archer while he sleeps off the aftereffects of whatever the hell those _assholes_ had packed into their fucking home-made flashbangs and augmented tear gas. At the news that the eye injury is only temporary, every one of them let out a long sigh of relief.

Tony actually catches Agent _asleep_ , head down on the bed beside Barton’s hip, his hand firmly clasped in the archer’s panicked grip.

“I didn’t know you could be adorable, Agent,” Tony drawls from the doorway for the pleasure of watching him jerk upright. “Do they teach that in spy school?” He’s trying to hold on to his anger but it’s not easy considering what he’s guessed. Though the fact remains: Agent made Pepper _cry_.

“Stark,” Coulson says, casting off any sign of weakness as he reaches an upright posture. “What can I do for you?”

“The Widow’s waking up,” Tony says, watching Coulson carefully.

The older man blinks once, face smooth, but the hand holding onto Barton convulses. “That’s good news,” Coulson says. “Barton will be relieved.”

“Yeah,” Tony says. “I guess it’ll be her turn to sit in here holding his hand, huh?”

“That would be up to Agent Romanov,” Coulson returns. “Though I’m sure Barton’s safety will be the first thing she asks about.” There’s a beat, then he very slowly begins to slide his fingers out of Barton’s firm grip.

“He’ll wake up and freak the fuck out,” Tony says, sorry now that he didn’t resist the urge to bait Coulson.

Agent just barely managed one trip to the bathroom a half-hour ago. Clint had punched Steve right in the face in his panic and followed it up with a roundhouse kick. The archer is beyond disoriented.

Coulson freezes immediately. There’s a long silence and then the Agent says quietly, “We can’t be sure of that. The next time he awakens the chemicals should be out of his system which means he will likely remember the past six months, and my presence will make things worse.”

Tony doesn’t answer because yeah, that sounds pretty likely. Coulson is staring down at their clasped hands and then he seems to come to a decision, sighing. “I need something from SHIELD. Is anyone from the team there at the moment?”

“No,” Tony says, and folds his arms, curious. “The ones not currently in hospital are trying to sleep.” Trying to sleep in the patient’s lounge down the hall, not that the Agent needs to know that right now.

Coulson is staring down at their joined hands. Then he nods once and draws out his phone. “Jasper?” he begins, and his face tightens at whatever is being said. “Wait- please. I need you to bring something to Barton. From my quarters.”

Agent Sitwell obviously says something combative, because Coulson says again, “Please.” And then, uncomfortable, “In the second drawer. It’s - wrapped up.”

Which is how Barton comes to spend the next several hours of his coma clutching a _Welcome to Minsk_ snowglobe in his free hand.

The why, Tony still isn’t sure.

 

 

 

 

“I’m not needed here,” Coulson says calmly, like that will make it true. “Agent Romanov will calm him.”

“I’m not sure what kind of proof it would take to convince you they’re not sleeping together,” Tony says without any other kind of introduction. It’s kind of hilarious the way Steve startles back, like Tony had tossed a live scorpion at Coulson instead of a few words.

“Tony!” he chides, and then seems to realize the implications. “Uh.” He glances over at the Agent. “Wait- is that, um-”

“This is not an appropriate conversation-” Coulson begins.

“They’re _NOT SLEEPING TOGETHER!”_ Tony cries, and slaps a hand to his forehead. “For the love of Thor, would you just _ask_ him already? Or her, for that matter- have you ever asked _her?_ ”

“This is none of our business, Tony,” Steve begins, then glances uneasily between the two of them and adds very quietly, “but he’s right, they’re not.”

Coulson blinks at Steve. “Wait-what?” he says.

“Oh, sure, right, believe _him_ ,” Tony says and throws his hands in the air. Thank God it’s 3am and they’re tucked away in Barton’s room or the public’s belief in the unbreakable cool of the Avengers’ would be shot to shit.

“Tis true,” Thor says, suddenly appearing behind Tony. “The fair Widow is unattached, my Jane and the Lady Darcy have spent many long hours discussing this with her.” A small frown wrinkles his flawless face, “I must admit, their observations left me with no great impression of the men of Midguard.”

“Yes, men _suck_ ,” Tony says patiently, “and I’ll bet if you asked our resident archer he’d agree, especially since it seems that his boo, here, left Barton hanging because he was too fucking scared to ask the man a simple question. _Do you like me, tick yes or no?”_

“You are wooing Hawkeye?” Thor asked musingly of the Agent.

“I- _no_. _No-one_ is wooing Barton,” Coulson begins, more discomposed than Tony has ever seen.

“Correct!” Tony says, “ _Including_ Romanov. Shouldn’t _someone_ be doing something about that?”

Coulson stares at him, wide-eyed, and for a moment Tony thinks it’s going to happen, it’s- and then the phone in Coulson’s jacket rings and he startles like a man coming awake. He blinks twice, takes a breath and reaches for the phone as he turns on his heel and _walks away_ , the fucking coward.

“Oh _no you DON’T!”_ Tony calls after him, completely exasperated. “You can be stupid _or_ scared, Agent,” he yells, getting louder as Coulson puts the phone to his ear, “not both! I do _not_ give you permission to be both. I cannot be that off-target about someone again,” he adds, more quietly. Steve and Thor are both staring at him, confused.

_Welcome to the fucking club_ , Tony thinks, staring at Coulson’s retreating back.

 

 

 

 

Then fucking _Nick Fury_ shows up. Tony’s not sure whether to swear or laugh. The guy has balls, no doubt. But he stands there, staring past Tony into Barton’s room like the archer and the Widow are his baby chicks, and then he shifts his gaze to Tony’s set face.

“Do you want to know the one thing about Phil Coulson that pisses me off? That has always, in all the years I’ve known the man, pissed me off?”

“I’m not sure I‘m the guy you want to tell that stuff to,” Tony says, because he is incapable of not baiting Fury even though this conversational gambit has Tony very, _very_ confused.

Fury ignores him, murmurs instead, “He is always ready to be convinced of how very ordinary he is, that he has no inherent value simply as Phil. That his entire worth lies in his capability.”

Tony processes that. Thinks about what Coulson might have felt and thought in the aftermath of being stabbed by Loki and pronounced dead. “And yet you sure as shit jumped at the chance to take advantage of that, didn’tcha, Nick?”

“I did.” Fury says heavily, “And I’m sorry for it. If it makes you feel any better, Stark, I have the feeling I’ll pay for that mistake for some time. Might even cost me a lifelong friendship.”

“Yes, and if you look closer it’s easy to trace the tracks of my tears,” Tony says, rolling his eyes.

“Although in my defence,” Fury adds, “With this pair of clowns, I didn’t exactly have all the relevant information. Barton is pretty fucking outstanding at hiding what he’s feeling, a hell of a lot better than his fieldwork evaluations ever showed. Even with Phil I wasn’t sure until after, and I’ve known him for twenty years.”

“So this is –what? You giving your blessing?”

“This is me admitting that this situation is best resolved without me. I won’t be interfering in whatever happens next.”

“Assuming something does actually _happen_ ,” Tony mutters.

Fury’s gleaming eye turns to Tony again. “Oh, _trust_ me, Stark,” he says ironically, and he has the fucking audacity to _smile_ , the snake, “something is already happening.”

Tony draws in a breath to reply when Fury glances past him again. “Romanov,” he says calmly, “we’ve got a lead on the goons who tried to snatch you.

The Widow doesn’t look away from her creepy, staring vigil at Barton’s bedside. Tony is just liking her more and more these days, which is one of the more disturbing developments in his life.

“And after the display Barton put on in the field yesterday,” Fury says implacably, “you can bet he’ll be their next port of call to try and get to you.” She takes a slow breath at that. “So I suggest you tear yourself away from his side and get out in the field and do what you do best.”

Tony snorts. “Right. Because leaving Barton behind here, where you are, is the best course of action. Let me guess, when we get back he’ll have mysteriously died of his injuries?”

“I won’t be here,” Fury says. “I’m coming with you. I have some interest in how these clowns knew where the Avengers would be. We have a leak, and I take that kind of personal. And Barton won’t be alone, not that you’re going to take my word for it. Have your AI take a look at SHIELD’s records for all the interested parties,” Fury says, turning. “I’m sure you have some way of getting inside our system. I’m not kidding around, and I’m not hiding some secret agenda.”

He turns on his heel, then, and walks away, leaving Tony annoyed and intrigued.

“I really don’t like that man,” he tells the Widow, still staring after Fury, then yelps when he realizes she’s appeared silently right beside him in that fucking creepy way she has.

“That makes about ...eighty four of us,” she says, “doesn’t mean he’s wrong.” She tilts her head and looks at Tony, brow raised. “Let’s go break into SHIELD.”

 

 


	14. Hurt

 

 

Phil takes a deep breath and presses just the tips of his fingers to the wall in front of him as he waits for the call to connect. Calm. _Calm_. Tasha had done this on purpose, tossed him Barton’s phone with the missed calls front and center, left it for Phil to handle as punishment.

Calm. _Calm_.

“Hello?”

“This is Phil Coulson.”

There’s a pause, then the guy says, confused, “Um, hi. Phil...”

He grits his teeth. “ _Coulson_. I was waiting on the plane when you drove our mutual friend of ours to the landing site.” And if this guy can’t be circumspect about the Avengers on an unsecured line-

“I- _ohhh,_ Phil,” Zeke Marinello - former Navy Lieutenant, last seen kissing Clint Barton - says with a great deal of meaning. “ _Phil_. Right.”

_Phil_ really wishes this guy would stop saying his damn name like it means something to him. “I’m sure you’ve seen the news reports-”

“Shit, yeah, yeah. Is he okay?”

Only years of dealing with Tony Stark have Phil keeping his cool at being interrupted by someone he very much _does not want to talk to_. “Not right now, no. But he will be,” and he cannot help the relief that shows in his voice, absolutely cannot help it. “His hearing was affected,” Phil forces himself to say. “Otherwise I’m sure he would have returned your call by now.”

“Right,” Marinelli says. “Yeah.” There’s a pause, then he says, “So he’s not – he’ll be out of the field for a while? Recuperating?”

Phil bites his lip hard enough to draw blood and says coolly, “Operational details of the Avengers are classified.” Nothing Phil has seen indicates this guy is some media hound, or even just careless - which can be just as bad. Still, Phil’s not about to trust him with anything.

“Right,” the guy replies dryly. “But, shit, this is awkward,” he mumbles quietly, “Look, Phil. If he needs somewhere to recuperate, would you, uh, let him know my door is always open. Okay?”

“Of course,” he replies, wishing very strongly that the entirety of Wisconsin could be engulfed in a small-scale scare of some kind that would involve closing the borders. “I’ll let him know.”

God _damn_ it. Just when he’s beginning to believe Romanov is out of the picture, there’s a young hot bartender with an obnoxious amount of curly hair elbowing his way to the front of the line and blocking out any possible view of a middle-aged bureaucrat. Phil presses his fingers to his own, receding hairline and waits.

“Yeah, except.” There’s silence, then Marinelli says, fast, “You’ve known him a long time, yeah?”

“I was his handler for ten years,” Phil shoots back tightly, then grimaces. What is he _doing?_ This is a competition he cannot possibly win. Barton had been more relaxed in his own skin on that flight to New York than Phil had seen in years. Possibly ever. After _one night_.

“I’m guessing he’d really prefer to be around someone he knows well, someone he trusts, if he’s not, y’know. Operating at 100%.”

Phil’s breath sticks in his throat. “I’m. You’re right,” he says, disconcerted. That doesn’t happen often. “However- I’m not sure I fit... both of those criteria anymore.”

“ _Phil_ ,” Marinelli says, strangely intense for someone with no stake in Phil’s life. “Trust me. You should... offer, at least. Let him decide.”

There’s a pause, then Phil clears his throat. “Yes, well. Thank you for. Uh. At any rate I was calling about the Jeep.” He suddenly wants very much to be done with this conversation, it keeps taking turns he hadn’t anticipated and that _does not happen_ to Phil Coulson.

“Okay.”

“There’ll be someone coming by to collect the keys and bring it back to New York.” That had been Stark’s idea. Phil hadn’t fought it. He wasn’t exactly going to oppose something that gave Barton one less reason to go back to Wisconsin. “They’ll show you Stark Industries ID.”

“Roger that,” Marinelli says, full of irony. “Well. Listen, I gotta go. It’s kinda busy here. I, um. Let Clint know I’m thinking of him, okay? And. Tell him I really wish him the best of luck, the kind I never had. Can you do that?”

“I’ll... write it down,” Phil says slowly. The younger man’s voice had gotten very intense there at the end.

“Good luck to you, too, Phil,” he replies. “You seem like a good guy.”

You seem like- _what?_ And then Phil is left staring at the phone in his hand, wondering what just happened.

 

 

 

Clint is rational enough to know that no-one here means him harm.

Probably.

But that doesn’t mean he can just _stay_. It’d been hard enough with Tasha right there at his side, her cool hand in his, still scratched up from the battle that had put them both in medical.

Those parts are all still a bit hazy. Clint has memories of curving over Tasha’s motionless body, covering her ears with his own hands and feeling the percussive force strike him. Sharp pain knifing through his ears, eyes and nose streaming from the chemical cocktail and then the white flare that had ended everything for a while.

He also remembers striking out and wanting to scream through a throat that wouldn’t work, eyes and ears useless, more vulnerable than he’s ever been. Remembers being held down and drowning in his own terror – his _body_ turning against him this time, rather than his icy-blue mind. And then there had been strong hands drawing him out again, into the world.

One more he owes Tasha.

He opens his eyes slowly, still can’t quite take for granted that it’s coming back, light and colours and movement starting to register again, though it’ll be days, apparently before the damage settles and his vision goes back to normal.

The doctors swear it _will_ go back to normal.

For a moment he just breathes in and out because the thought of losing his vision-

And then he gives himself another moment because – Doc Del Rey would be so proud – he’s beginning to recognise an important truth. Going blind is a prospect that would mess with anyone’s head. Doesn’t make him weak. And if – _when_ – he’s recovered, his eyes aren’t back to Hawkeye standards, well.

He’ll survive. He’s starting to believe that. His series of emotional breakdowns during this fucking year from _hell_ has, apparently, served a purpose. Because it occurs to him suddenly, hours after Tasha and the team had said their farewells and taken off in search of VIPER, that he’s been out in the world as plain old Clint Barton for a while now, and he’s done okay. He’s been occupied, been productive. Made connections. Without any traces of Hawkeye, without Tasha, without SHIELD, without-

He stops and swallows. Nup. Not quite there yet.

He takes in a steady breath and pushes upright, swings his legs over the side like an old man and waits some more while the other aches and pains in his arms and legs and torso and _hair_ announce their presence. He’s not stupid, he’s not trying to injure himself. And Jesus _fuck_ , everything hurts. Soon as he’s made it somewhere safe, he’s going to lie down and sleep for ten hours.

Dressing is weird and uncomfortable, his sense of balance is utterly shot and everything is disconcerting - not to be able to hear the soft _sssshh_ of the t-shirt sliding over his head, hear his feet shuffling on what he knows are squeaky floors. The room is intentionally darkened, and he fumbles around until he finds the sunglasses the doctors have told him he’ll need for a good while yet.

They’re not so sure about his hearing.

Clint breathes in and out, carefully calm. The loss shouldn’t be permanent, but they won’t really know for weeks yet. There are information sheets which of course, he can’t fucking read right now, but as best he can understand, it has to heal on its own, and no-one’s going to really know if there’s some permanent loss until more time has passed. For now he’s stuck waiting.

And if he’s waiting, he’ll do it on his terms, not in some generic room that smells overwhelmingly chemical, and where he has no control over who comes and who goes.

He doesn’t bother actually signing out AMA, because he doesn’t have the energy to have an argument in scribbled notes, especially when his balance really isn’t... reliable. Falling over will only hurt his argument. Instead he makes his way slowly and carefully down the corridor, knowing the nurses will watch him but not approach. He wasn’t the most docile patient when brought in, apparently.

When the two shapes standing together wearing the same color (he’s figured out that means _nurses_ ) have gone still (he’s learned that means they’ve seen Clint), he points toward the patient’s lounge Tasha had pointed out last night. One of the shapes moves, an exaggerated nod they’ve begun doing just for him. Clint shuffles into the lounge slowly, and then waits until he thinks there’s no-one watching and makes for the fire stairs.

It’s hardly his most stealthy escape, first-graders with their legs tied together could probably catch _and_ detain him, but the misdirection was the important part, and he stumbles out into the parking lot with mixed feelings - triumph at breathing fresh air and low-level nausea from his fucked up middle ear. He starts toward a riot of colors that should be a parking lot (asphalt under his feet), which will surely have a taxi rank somewhere.

He’s probably only a few feet away from the man when the rough shapes in front of him coalesce into Phil Coulson, arms crossed, leaning against Clint’s Jeep.

Clint stops too quickly and stumbles, Coulson catches him, makes sure he’s stable and then lets go like Clint was about to give him a red light for workplace harassment.

Clint swallows, realizes a moment later he’s breathing hard. He watches Coulson’s chest, it’s automatic now not to look him in the eye, and as he stares it registers in a surreal way that the other man is wearing a polo shirt and cargoes.

_No suit._

Clint stumbles again. Coulson catches him and this time doesn’t let go. He holds up a set of keys – Clint squints and they swim into focus for a half-second – the Jeep’s keys, right, and then Coulson points to his own chest.

Coulson’s driving. Message received. Clint swallows. Where the fuck would he and Coulson be driving?

Coulson leans in, checks Clint is steady on his feet, then lets go and drags open the Jeep’s rear door. In the tiny space is – he leans forward, squinting. Clint’s go-bag, Coulson’s go-bag, and a long case balanced across the two. Coulson shoots him a quick glance and pops the latches on the case.

Inside is nestled a bow. Stark’s work, that much is obvious. She’s beautiful. Clint wants to touch, but if he moves too much he’s going to fall over and he’s already full up on his humiliation for the day, thanks very much.

Coulson closes the case and shuts the door while Clint puzzles it through. The Jeep is packed for the two of them. The team must know about this, how else would Coulson have the bow? So they knew Clint wouldn’t stay in hospital, and they’ve made arrangements for him to be babysat by the only other person who wasn’t going on the mission.

He tries to breathe.

Coulson touches his arm lightly, and Clint flinches. He sees Coulson’s hand snap back, then the older man steps carefully away and pulls a map out of his pocket. Continental USA, Clint thinks, from the size of it. Coulson spreads it out over the back of the Jeep and waits until Clint staggers forward enough to see his hand. He’s pointing at something, it’s near the top right hand corner, so, probably New York. Coulson waits.

It’s a question, Clint realizes. Does Clint want to stay in New York?

He’s shaking his head before he thinks about it. Stupid, really. He had been planning on staying, but then, only because he couldn’t physically move himself any further.

Coulson’s blur nods once, sharply. Then he hesitates, only for a half-instant, but Clint knows him and Clint can tell. Then his finger moves left, moves west, and Clint guesses the destination before Coulson gets there.

Wisconsin.

For a long moment Clint hesitates. Tasha had scrawled out an actual poster to let him know Zeke had called, left a voicemail he can listen to when his ears have healed. He knows the other man would give a shit what happened. But Clint can’t just show up there now, like _this_. Jesus- he’s shuffling along like an old man, can’t hear anything, can’t really talk. He gives one shake of his head.

Coulson nods again. Drops his hand. Waits.

Clint waits too.

Then Coulson very carefully nudges Clint’s arm forward, toward the map.

Oh. Is there anywhere Clint does want to go?

Nowhere he wants to share with _Coulson_ , he thinks, angry and embarrassed. He folds his arms.

Coulson nods in reply, slow. Finally he lifts his arm and traces a path from the New York splodge Clint can just make out, moving south, or maybe southwest Clint thinks. Not far, in the scheme of things, probably Virginia or somewhere similar. Whichever it is, it’s fine. Clint can sit in the car for a day or two, even if it is next to Coulson. He’ll wait until his middle ear gets its shit together, and then disappear.

So he shrugs, a big gesture, and hopes it conveys everything.

Coulson nods slowly, kind of defeated, and then shepherds Clint toward the passenger seat without ever actually touching him.

 

 

Clint’s body fights a stupid kind of battle during the next forty minutes. Stress versus exhaustion, emotion versus injury, fear versus pain. It’s a whole thing. The constant movement is horribly disorienting, considering Clint can’t make out what anything is until it’s right _there_ , but already passing him by, or it’s something absolutely huge like the Brooklyn Bridge. _Probably_ the Brooklyn Bridge.

He sits very still, trying not to focus too much on anything, not even the absolutely beautiful smoothness that is Phil Coulson handling New York traffic. He’s seen Coulson drive like that in the red dust of Marrakesh and the insanity of Rome – unflappable and so very certain. It had felt, to Clint, like hypnosis.

He swallows and turns his face to the window, body language as distant as he can make it. He’s furious on some level that Tasha and the others would make this decision for him, but on another level he can see the practicality. Clint’s an easy target right now. He hadn’t even known Coulson was _there_ until way, way too late. If that had been a hostile-

Clint sighs silently. If he wasn’t such a contrary idiot he’d have stayed on at the hospital and accepted appropriate medical care, but since he didn’t? He’s going to have to suck it up and spend a few days with someone who has both the security clearance and the skills to keep Clint hidden, keep him safe until he protect himself again.

Could’ve been worse. Could’ve been _Fury_.

They pull over then, and Clint blinks, embarrassed to find he’d been on the edge of sleep. Hadn’t even noticed when they’d turned into to narrow city streets. And then he sees a familiar sign and freezes.

Coulson slides out of the Jeep and disappears into the store in front of Clint’s window – and there it is again. _How_ does the guy get a park right in front of a neighbourhood store on a street this busy?

Coulson isn’t gone long, and when he emerges Clint has himself under control enough that he can accept the familiar, red and white bag without flinching, inhale the scent without getting all weepy. Reuben for Clint, turkey for Coulson, like they’ve done a hundred times before. No coffee – water for both of them (doctor’s orders, probably) – but a bag of bagels and some chicken soup disappear into the backseat of the Jeep. Clint curls his hand around the bag – there’s no crinkle of paper to hear – and stares down at it.

Coulson doesn’t try to get his attention, just pulls out into traffic and Clint, after a long time, unwraps his sandwich and manages to eat a few bites before it feels like it will choke him. Then he wraps it up again, sets it down on the dash and feels the fog of exhaustion settle over him again. Coulson moves slowly in his peripheral vision, and Clint watches, too tired to react, as the older man reaches behind Clint’s seat and slowly brings into view a small, solid cushion. He holds it out without speaking, and Clint accepts it in silence, stares down at it like he did the sandwich.

He wants to refuse, this caretaking, the familiarity, the undeniable _care_ that underlies all of this weirdness, then he sighs. Stupidity might be tempting, but it does have the disadvantage of, well, being stupid. Clint is banged up, deafened and vision impaired, and right now he is fucking _exhausted_. He presses the cushion up against the window, rests his head against the fabric, and lets it all drift away.

 


	15. Spill

 

 

Phil lets out a long, slow breath when Barton is finally asleep. His hands flex on the wheel.

He has absolutely no idea what he’s doing.

“Jarvis,” he says softly. Stark had filled him in on the Jeep’s capabilities when he’d dropped the keys into Phil’s hand.

“Clint Barton refers to me as MiniJarvis, Agent Coulson,” the familiar voice says from the stereo.

Phil bites back a smile. “MiniJarvis, then. Can you do a search for me on furnished cabins in the area around Lake Gunning?”

“Running now. There are fifteen vacant properties near or on the Lake. Do you have any other parameters?”

“Privacy.”

“Four of the properties have their own private access road.”

Phil nods. “Good. If any of them have better security features – sensor lighting, or a clear area around the cabin, bump those to the top of the list.”

“Done,” MiniJarvis says. Phil glances over at Barton, fast asleep. The archer’s face is battered, though his clothes cover most of the abrasions Phil knows he’s nursing. His hearing is clearly still non-existent, and Phil isn’t sure how much he’s seeing, either. The next few days, the next few _weeks_ are not going to be easy.

“Let’s start making some calls,” Phil says. He glances sideways once more, then resolutely tears his eyes away, determined not to give in to the near-constant impulse to stare, because that’s the road that leads straight to world-champion creeper.

He forces his hands to loosen on the wheel and lets the thing that’s really bothering him push its way to the surface.

_Why hadn’t Barton chosen Wisconsin?_

 

 

 

The cabin is good enough. There’s an upstairs bedroom and the entire downstairs is open-plan, so... that could have been better. Considering Barton is currently acting as though Phil has the plague, a room to escape to might have been nice, and sleeping on the sofa is going to register with his middle-aged back at some point. But. He’ll make it work.

It’s secure, is the point, one way in and one way out, the lake a short walk through the trees, a cleared area around the house enough to give Phil visibility. He’d made sure there were no tails as he left New York, and MiniJarvis took care of all the rental transactions through a shell company.

They’re safe.

They’re alone.

They’re not talking.

Phil slides the reheated chicken soup in front of Barton and returns to the kitchen to finish unpacking. MiniJarvis had arranged for a comprehensive grocery order to be waiting for collection when they’d passed through the town of Gunning to pick up the keys to the cabin. They’re a lot more comfortable and better resourced than any other time they’ve shared a safe house or gone on the run after an op.

Phil sighs. Funny how he can be wishing to eat cold hash out of a tin under a tarpaulin in monsoon season, if it meant Barton would be cracking jokes at his side. He cherishes those memories, all the things he knows about Clint Barton that didn’t come from a file.

Phil’s hands still on the bag of flour. Barton’s file. The things Phil knew, the things he’s observed and added to what was in the archer’s file.

Barton’s never read _Phil’s_ file.

Maybe that why, next day, Phil starts talking.

 

 

 

“This was my mother’s favourite recipe,” Phil says. Barton, naturally, says nothing. Phil keeps going anyway. “She started teaching me how to cook when I was about sixteen.”

He keeps working the dumpling dough, head down, and doesn’t stop talking. He rambles on about how his mother worried he’d lose weight when he left home because he was such a picky eater – _the Army got me out of that pretty rapidly_ – he remembers, smiling, and how he still has his grandmother’s cookbook in storage somewhere, with his mother’s handwriting all over it.

 

 

 

“My mother died during my senior year,” Phil tells a silent Clint as he’s washing up after lunch. The archer’s vision is clearly improving, his hesitancy moving around the cabin almost entirely gone. “Ovarian cancer. One of those – diagnosed and dead within a month cases. It nearly killed my Dad. He’s still alive, but his dementia is so advanced he hasn’t recognized me in years. The Director didn’t inform him,” he adds, voice dropping. “There wouldn’t have been any point.”

 

 

 

“I lost my virginity to the star quarterback of our high school football team,” Phil says out of nowhere. Barton, who has shown no sign of his hearing returning, doesn’t react, keeps on with his sit-ups, chest gleaming with sweat. Phil swallows hard and forces himself to glance away. “He dragged me under the bleachers during the victory celebrations when they won State, and gave me the blow job of a lifetime.” He’s musing now, really, while his hands chop vegetables. “Oddly enough I found out a week later that I had something in common with the head cheerleader, though of course I couldn’t exactly boast about it the way she could. My parents weren’t really the most open-minded people.”

 

 

 

 

“I was captured, once, in Iraq,” Phil says, and immediately freezes. He hadn’t- he’s not- that’s too-

He clears his throat and reminds himself Barton’s not listening, likely can’t make out any of Phil’s words anyway. “I’d had close calls before,” he finally admits, rubs a hand over his side in memory of a long-healed wound. “But that was the first time I ever truly thought...”

He takes a huge breath and lifts his gaze to the night sky above. “Same stars,” he says. “It was so hard for me to accept that the same stars were watching... well.” He shrugs and goes silent again, lost in memory. “Only two of us came back from that,” he finally murmurs. He traces his fingers over the glass, a long, lazy figure-eight, slow.

 

 

 

“When I was nine my aunt and uncle died in a car crash,” Phil says, staring out the window to the treeline. Barton is reading on the couch behind him, he makes no response. “My cousins came to live with us. They were older than me. Opposite to me in every way, really. My parents, too. We had always been a quiet family. Boring, I suppose. Jed and Carla were – well. Larger than life. Dynamic. Dominated every room without even trying.”

He takes a few slow even breaths. “My parents found it... fascinating. They loved the drama, the constant something happening, while I was... I couldn’t compete...” He’s silent for a long time. “I know they loved me. I was loved,” he repeats, finds himself scrubbing a hand over his face. “It just – stopped feeling like home after a while.”

There’s no answer and he nods once because that’s about what he expected, then lets himself out of the cabin and goes for a run. He doesn’t pocket the keys to the Jeep, only because he’s had a long talk with MiniJarvis, who has agreed to kill the engine until such time as Clint’s vision is back to normal. If Barton wants to leave today, he’ll have to do it on foot, and Phil _will_ find him.

 

 

 

“I’ve dated women almost exclusively,” Phil tells Barton, who isn’t listening. It’s been days, the bruises are gone now, the archer’s vision has completely returned, or very nearly. He still hasn’t spoken to Phil. Neither has he left. And so Phil keeps trying.

“It’s taken me years to realize I was trying to please my parents, who weren’t even there anymore, not really. I had one relationship with another man, ironically enough when we were both still in the service. He was a Marine, I was Rangers. It wasn’t easy to see each other, but we were...”

He clears his throat. He hasn’t thought about Thomas Szkoda in ears. “We were close. Monogamous. We had fun. It wasn’t just screwing around to fill in time, though that was what I told myself at the time, and so, I think, did he. But if I had been ready to be honest, I think I’d have had to admit that I loved him. I worried about him when he was gone and I waited for news that he had come back. When I was out there and things were- _bad_ \- I used to cling to the idea that there was someone, somewhere, who cared if I lived or died. But then our units were posted to different theatres and we never could seem to meet up. Time passed. We drifted apart.”

Phil swallows. “He died in a car crash about four years ago. DUI, the police report said. It’s hard for me to picture that. The Tommy I knew would never-” he grinds to a halt, thinking about _never_ , and choices Phil would never have considered making, before Loki, that somehow came to seem possible. “Well,” he finishes quietly. “It was a long time ago, after all. People change.”

 

 

 

He pauses halfway down the stairs, for no real reason, later that same day.

“Are you ever going to admit that you can hear me?” Phil asks the back of Clint’s head. He’s exhausted.

Clint freezes, only for half a second but long enough that Phil knows his gut was right.

Phil sighs. Covers his eyes with his hand while he gathers himself together, because.

It was one thing to suspect Barton was cutting him out with the silent treatment. It’s another thing altogether to realize he’s been spilling all the details of his flat, boring, life to someone who didn’t ask to know.

“All right,” he says, staggers the rest of the way down the stairs, then stops. He’s never felt this defeated before. He’s been a _prisoner of war_ and not felt this beaten. “All right.” He swallows hard, trying to figure out what on earth to do from here. “Maybe I should- go.”

Barton hisses in a sharp breath and springs to his feet. His face, when he turns, is livid. _“Go?”_ he says, voice rusty from disuse.

Phil freezes and can’t look away from that burning glance.

“Fucking- did you just say maybe you should _GO?_ ” They’re the first words Barton has spoken to him since the hospital. The first words he’s chosen to say to Phil in months.

“Is that your solution to everything? Just – just making a fucking Phil Coulson-shaped hole in my life any time things get tough? Like it won’t touch me, won’t _hurt_ me, won’t- won’t leave me wishing I was _dead_ -”

The burst of words ends swiftly and Barton sucks in a harsh breath. The furious glare he shoots at Phil nails his feet to the floor, and Barton is moving before Phil can process the other man’s intentions. He scoops up the bottle of scotch left on the sideboard and slams out the door. Phil gapes for a moment, trying to process two things at once - this is the first sign of real life the other man has shown since they left the hospital, and _he’s even angrier than I’d guessed_.

And then he hears the unmistakable sound of the Jeep’s engine turning over.

“Clint,” he chokes out, “ _wait_ , no-”

He shoves through the door and outside but too late. The Jeep is kicking up dust as it pulls away from the cabin, leaving an obscuring cloud in its wake.

 


	16. Ache

 

 

He drives angry, drives stupidly, drives with stubborn focus away from the man who has such power to hurt him, still.

MiniJarvis is talking to him, voice the same careful tone as ever but the words are faster, more urgent. Clint wishes for the deafness to return, to shut it all out, for him to never again hear Coulson’s fucking voice, especially not to hear it say _maybe I should go_.

He lets out a gasping breath and stomps on the brake, staggers out of the Jeep with the engine still running and starts to push his way through the underbrush. The bottle is still clutched in his hand and he lets out a strangled half-laugh. Yay for the Barton family’s fucked up instincts.

He can’t unhear that, but he can - maybe - forget.

 

 

 

He walks and drinks and walks and drinks, hears voices in the distance talking about fishing and veers away from the lake, up into the hills, walks and drinks some more until the walking is mostly staggering. Maybe that’s enough.

Time gets hazy, his balance is shot, but there’s enough brain left in him to find a space to wedge himself between two huge rocks, protect his back, at least, from whatever might want to hurt him. He closes his eyes and puts his hands over his ears and tries to go far away, go deep inside.

 

 

 

There’s an urgent voice, light slaps on his face, getting harder, and he forces his eyes open. “Hnh,” he manages.

“Barton.” The voice is clipped, taut with strain. “Clint, can you hear me?”

“M’ears are fixed,” he mumbles. His eyes don’t want to open. But. They’re better too, aren’t they? A vague memory wisps past and he lets it go, exhausted and uninterested.

A sharp exhale of warm breath on his cheek. “ _Barton_ ,” his handler says.

“Sir,” he manages. Shit. He’s been on a bender. Is he in trouble? Behind enemy lines, maybe- “All clear?” he slurs out.

The hands on his shoulders convulse and then Sir says, “We’re secure.” His tone is somehow dull.

“S’good,” Clint manages. “Think I need to sleep it off, sir.”

A short, sharp bark of laughter has him prying his eyes open. Coulson’s face floats above him, white as a sheet, mouth a flat line of unhappiness.

“D-I screw up?” he manages. There’s a deep well of unhappiness in him at the thought. He _hates_ disappointing Coulson. S’worse than _anything_.

Coulson breathes in once, steadily. “No, Hawkeye,” he says, still unhappy in his face though his voice is the controlled Agent Coulson Voice that comes over the comms no matter the hour, no matter the situation. “You can stand down.”

“You mad at me?” Clint asks, trying to curl into a more upright position. He’s sleepy, but something won’t let him close his eyes. Then he winces. That’s a child’s question. Nothing professional there. If he’s not careful he’ll slip and then... something will happen. Something he’s been trying to stop. He puts a hand to his head. He can’t _remember_.

“Relax, Barton,” Coulson says. He manhandles Clint out of his predicament like he’s a beetle stuck on his back, then hands him a bottle of water. “Drink this. And no, I’m not mad.”

Clint just nods, happy to accept that for now. He drinks half the bottle and then stares at it stupidly. Coulson sighs, takes the bottle back and pushes Clint until he’s lying down, head in Coulson’s lap while Coulson leans back against a tree that seems to have just appeared out of nowhere.

Unpor-unper-unpref... Shit. Clint lets his body go slack. What the fuck ever. They’ve done weirder shit than this for the sake of an op. Maybe he’s been drugged. Yeah. Maybe someone roofied him or something and so it’s okay to be relaxing against Coulson’s body, taking comfort from the older man’s presence and staring up at the trees.

There’s silence for a very long time. Clint lets his thoughts drift, eyes heavy. Dru-u-u- _unk_.

“I never should have-”

“Mm?”

Coulson sighs. His fingers card through Clint’s hair _(nice)_ and then he says, very clearly, “I never should have let my own issues get in the way of what I knew you needed.”

“You don’t have any issues,” Clint mumbles. The sun is flickering through the leaves _it’s beautiful_ and his eyes are seeing that. _Yeah, eyes, how amazing are they?_

“No,” Coulson says tonelessly. “Of course not. More robot than man, that’s me.”

Clint tilts his head waaaay back so he can see Coulson’s face because that had- there was hurt there, and he might be muzzy as hell but he’s never going to miss _that_. Coulson being hurt, that’s a – a thing, like an alarm thing, right there. Clint’s job is to fix that, or stop it from happening, or what the fuck ever.

“Coulson,” he says, and he waves one arm until it gets near the older man’s face, where it’s caught in a firm grip that immediately relaxes every part of Clint’s body. When he stops grinning stupidly at their clasped hands and refocuses, he finds green eyes fixed on his face, warm and affectionate.

“Not a robot,” Clint says firmly. _“Warm.”_

A tiny smile twitches the side of Coulson’s face. “Thank you,” he says gravely, and that’s when the other half of it pops up in Clint’s confused head.

“Sad,” he says and Coulson blinks, then nods.

“Yes,” he says. Squeezes Clint’s hand. “But being here is making it better. And I do deserve it.”

Clint frowns at that, because it goes against every part of him to agree, but there is some buried part of him pointing and saying, _yes, that_. He can’t quite remember why, but it mixes him up.

“I was sad, too,” he says, out of nowhere, and Coulson’s face does that hurt-thing again.

“I know,” he says, “I know. I’m so very sorry, Clint.” Coulson’s hand goes back to touching Clint’s hair and he drifts away on the gentle strokes with a heart made suddenly light.

 


	17. Stand

 

Clint awakens back at the cabin with a thumping head and technicolour fucking memories of sharing tender moments with Coulson in a sun-dappled glade.

What the fuck is his _life_.

He curls upright way too quickly and immediately throws up into the bucket the Coulson has – of fucking _course_ – placed in exactly the right spot at the side of the bed. When all his insides are on the outside and his knees and wrists are shaking so hard they barely work, he grits his teeth and forces himself up, and into the small bathroom.

It takes about ten minutes to put himself together, take a leak, shower, clean his teeth twice, and choke down the paracetamol Coulson has – of fucking _course_ – thoughtfully left next to a glass of water. Then he storms downstairs, ready for war. He’s not even slightly derailed to realize Coulson is folding the fucking clean laundry at the kitchen table.

“What are you doing here, wasting your time in the wilds with me? _Really._ Why-”

Coulson, of course, doesn’t flinch. He sets down one of Clint’s t-shirts on top of his jeans. “Do you know what my greatest strength and greatest weakness has always been?”

“Is it the inability to _answer a simple fucking question?”_ Clint is so close to violence here it’s not even funny.

“I’m ordinary,” Coulson says calmly, and that-

_That_ stops Clint in his tracks.

“It’s always been the most obvious thing about me. It’s been an advantage, actually, once I worked out how to use it. People don’t notice me. Or, if they do,” the hard swallow belies the light tone, “they forget me.”

“No,” Clint says. Just- _no_. He’s breathing hard. “You can’t possibly have thought- whatever else was going on you _had_ to have known I wouldn’t just _forget_ you. _Tasha_ wouldn’t fucking forget you.”

Coulson keeps his eyes on the table, sorting socks when he says slowly, “I was in a coma for five weeks after... After.”

“What?”

“By the time I opened my eyes for the first time... I was already buried and you had returned to Avenger’s Tower. The team had assembled twice.”

There’s a pause. “So you’re saying... you couldn’t undo it?” Clint asks slowly. He doesn’t think he can accept a line like that. There were things Coulson could have done to put him _back in the fucking loop_.

“No. I’m saying...” Coulson sighs, “I’m saying I inherited a situation and I didn’t have all the variables to make a good judgement call.”

_“Variables?”_ Clint asks dangerously, tensing again. He is not a fucking _variable_.

Coulson looks at him. He hesitates for a long time, which Clint can appreciate. His temper is kind of hair-trigger lately. “You seemed to be coping,” he finally says. It’s simple. It’s honest. It’s devastating.

Clint sits down quickly. He stares at Coulson across a kitchen table filled with their combined laundry. It’s ordinary and domestic and every secret wish Clint ever had. “No,” he says. _“No.”_

“I assumed, of course, that you were grieving in private. I knew I would be... missed.” Coulson takes a slow breath and raises his gaze to focus somewhere in the middle distance. “But you were effective in the field. You weren’t taking bad risks. You were attending psych and medical sessions. You were... okay. Without me.”

“No.” He shakes his head. “I _wasn’t_ ,” Clint says hoarsely. “I was _not okay_.” _This cannot be happening._

Coulson spreads his hands and meets Clint’s eyes for the first time. “Clint,” he says softly. “I didn’t know that.”

 

 

 

They sit silently in the cabin for a while. All Clint’s anger has deflated and left him listless. Confused.

“I don’t,” he begins. “What.” Stops again.

Coulson gets to his feet and makes coffee while Clint watches. When there’s a steaming cup in front of him, he wraps his hands around it and tries to put together a coherent thought. Just one would be nice.

“You thought you weren’t ...necessary?” he asks.

Coulson shrugs. “No-one is irreplaceable,” he replies.

_Bullshit_ , Clint thinks. And then, because he can’t help but test things, won’t ever trust so easily again, “Even me, right?”

Coulson freezes. Then he sighs. “Point taken. Though I’m hardly neutral on that subject,” he says. “I’ve always found you a remarkable field agent, not even taking into account your marksmanship.” Then he shrugs. “Not that my opinion is relevant anymore.” He hesitates, then sinks into his seat at the opposite end of the table. “I probably should have mentioned earlier... I submitted my resignation to Director Fury a few hours before you were injured. We negotiated afterward that I would keep the badge and gun until such time as you were able to safely go your own way. It seemed simpler, if anything did happen with VIPER, for me to still have SHIELD resources to fall back on, rather than battle with the local authorities over jurisdiction.”

Clint stares. “Say that again?”

“I resigned,” Coulson says calmly.

“No,” Clint says, shaking his head. Agent Phil Coulson of SHIELD. That’s how it is, how it’s always been. Clint can’t imagine...

“I’m afraid so,” he returns.

“No,” Clint insists. “Fury would never- no.”

“The Director understood my priorities have changed.”

“Your priorities.”

Coulson stand, then, busies himself around the kitchen as he speaks and Clint’s eyes narrow. That’s a tell, as Dr Del Rey would say. He’s trying to distract Clint from the fine detail, trying to hide his facial expressions. “It’s not exactly uncommon,” the older man says, “for a life-changing event to lead to a re-evaluation of your life.”

“And what did your re-evaluation consist of?” Clint asks. His heart is starting a slow thud in his chest because they’re still talking around the real issue. Loki and SHIELD and priorities don’t really address the way Coulson had _run his fingers through Clint’s hair_ or the extremely personal anecdotes he’s been dropping into the mix since they got to the lake.

Coulson breathes in once, twice, slow and controlled. Clint is all set for some bullshit denial when the older man says, “Before I answer that, there’s something I need for you to understand first.”

Clint just waits.

Coulson rests his hands on the kitchen bench, body leaning on the diagonal. “I was your handler,” he says. “Your source of intel and backup whenever you were in the field, and often your only link to home and to safety.”

Clint nods.

“I take- _took_ that very seriously.”

Clint nods again.

Coulson raises his head and looks Clint right in the eye, “I would never become involved with someone whose safety depended on me. It would be grossly unfair and put not only that agent, but _all_ the agents they work with at risk.”

Clint stares back as he adds, “And, of course, in one of life’s pleasant little ironies, you were far too important – to _me_ – for me to ever entertain the thought of suggesting you work with another handler. I couldn’t trust your safety to anyone else, couldn’t take the risk they might not value your life the way I did.”

Clint swallows. His heart is, well, it can’t be _shaking_ but it fucking feels like it.

“Also,” Coulson offers, turning to lean back against the counter, “I was certain you were still involved with Agent Romanov.”

Clint makes an aggravated kind of noise in the back of his throat and Coulson raises a hand, _peace_.

“I know,” he says, “ _Believe_ me, I know. Stark has made that side of things abundantly clear.”

_Stark?_ Clint thinks, but doesn’t argue.

“But no matter that I was mistaken there, you can see why it seemed impossible for me to move toward any other kind of relationship. I already had-”

He stops, then, throat working, and finally says quietly, “I was already happier than I’d been in years. To have your trust-”

And that brings things to a screaming halt, because, well. _Awkward_.

“So. I tried to keep a lid on it,” he says simply. “I made it work as best I could. I dated, and I went to work every day, glad for the chance to see you, and to be doing important work with a team I trusted. I dated, and when I met someone I liked better than usual, I tried to make things work with Susan, I tried to live a... satisfying life.”

Clint swallows again. “You’re saying that you...”

“I’m saying _I like you_ ,” Phil says with an odd smile, like laughing at a private joke. “And shortly there will be a note with two boxes for you to tick, a _yes_ or a _no_.”

 

 


	18. Flare

 

 

“Why aren’t we kissing?” Clint asks suddenly.

Coulson freezes and his hands clench convulsively on the kitchen bench. Clint watches the white knuckles, confused at why that’s apparently a bad idea.

“You don’t remember the hospital,” Coulson says, and it’s not a question.

Clint frowns and shakes his head.

“But you do remember yesterday.” He takes a few carefully even breaths when Clint nods.

_I called him Sir_ , Clint recalls suddenly. He’d been convinced they were on an op.

“It was the same when you were injured. You... you went back. To before.”

“You were at the hospital?” he asks to buy time as he thinks back over it.

“You were disoriented and out of control,” Coulson says instead of answering. “The team didn’t know what to do for you.”

Strong hands, pulling him out of the dark. _Not_ Tasha. Of course not – if Clint had thought about it at all he’d have realized she was drugged and out of the picture at that point. Instead _Coulson_ had come to him and Clint had – of course – trusted the man. Had let him in, instinctively.

“You called me _sir,_ ” Coulson says, like it hurts to speak the word. “You went back to a time when you were safe, to when you still... trusted me.”

Clint looks away.

“You don’t trust me now,” Coulson says, dogged. The man has clearly learned a painful lesson from the past few months, because now there’s no pain he won’t examine, no flaw he won’t expose. “I broke something precious, something that took a long time to build.”

“So you won’t... touch me because you think I’m only letting you close enough to do that... because of the past,” Clint says slowly, puzzling it out as he talks. “You think that if I stay in the present, I won’t-” he stops.

“I don’t know what you want,” Coulson says. “And I can’t assume. Because.” His knuckles go white. “I’ve broken us enough already. All I can do is give you... the information. I want you. I care about you. I’m sorry I hurt you.” He takes a sharp breath and finishes abruptly, “Whatever happens – or doesn’t happen from here – has to be your call.”

Clint sits there for a while, staring into his half-drunk cup of coffee. He’s pretty sure Dr Del Rey would approve of Coulson’s approach, but Clint?

He hadn’t expected this. He’d expected to storm and rage at Coulson until he grovelled and then, well. Clint’s dreams generally fall into either the manhandles-Coulson-into-bed category or is-manhandled-into-bed-by-Coulson.

He hadn’t pictured having to push his cup aside and cross the kitchen in cold blood. Palms sweaty, heart pounding, the whole teenaged nightmare.

“What I want,” Clint says when he’s in front of Coulson. “Is to kiss you. Touch you. I want to know how that feels.” He doesn’t say _I’ve been dreaming about it for so long._

Coulson’s head moves fractionally, a tiny nod of agreement or consent.

“I want to know what you’re thinking and what you’re feeling about me, about _this_ ,” Clint says, gesturing between them. He tries, then, to think. Because as dizzying as it is to know this might finally be within reach, it’s terrifying too. And some part of Clint is still so very, very angry.

“That’s as much as I can tell you right now,” he says finally. “I don’t have all the answers.”

“I like those ones just fine,” Coulson says with a soft smile, and he slants a glance up at Clint. And maybe it’s as simple as that, because he can’t help but kiss that smile the way he’d wanted to in every damn debrief, for all those fucking lonely years, all the nights full of yearning. Their lips meet, soft and searching, and Clint can’t hold back a humming sigh as his entire body seems to _melt_.

Coulson’s mouth is sweet and bitter, coffee and sugar and warmth. Their lips catch and release, gentle and searching, and Clint’s chest grows tight with how perfect it is, how long he’s dreamed of having _this_. Just this.

He tilts his head and presses closer, keeping his hands gentle but not letting his grasp on Coulson’s hips falter for one second. He wants in, wants the closeness, that feeling that comes only from _this man_.

They kiss, on and on, a gentle delight Clint would never have predicted for two guys so hardened by life (ex-soldiers, ex-spies). His weight slowly transfers until he’s leaning into Coulson, their entire lengths pressed together, arms winding tight around waist and hips. It’s not long before he’s hard, Coulson’s hard, it’s becoming impossible to ignore and finally Clint breaks the kiss, just a little, enough to speak.

“Couch,” he says, and Coulson kisses him again. Clint makes a tiny moaning sound in the back of his throat and gives himself up to it, gets a little lost.

“I want,” Coulson is saying against his mouth, “Clint, I want-” and Clint is nodding, mumbling back _yeah_ even as he shuffles his feet, gets them moving.

“-take this slow,” Coulson keeps going.

“Uh-huh.” Clint’s nuzzling, nipping.

“-make another mistake-”

“I know,” Clint says, and levers them onto the couch, landing right where he wanted, which is on top of Coulson.

“Oh God,” Coulson says and Clint looks up to see him swallowing, eyes blown dark with want. He wants to grin in triumph but he’s too busy absorbing the way their bodies have aligned, Clint’s weight pressing his cock down against Coulson’s erection and that’s so good he _writhes_ as he lets his open mouth fall over Coulson’s, and they both moan.

_“Clint.”_

“Yeah,” he gasps.

Their bodies shift against each other with every kiss, gliding, rubbing, until finally Clint is just moaning with every breath and Coulson’s hands are like vices on Clint’s ass. “I need-” he groans, “fuck, _please_ -”

His head spins as Coulson manoeuvres him upright and then, _thank you God_ , he is straddling Coulson’s lap, both of them breathing heavy, staring down at the tent in Clint’s sweatpants.

“Want to see you,” Coulson breathes against Clint’s throat and he is _totally_ on board with that. Their hands scramble together to drag the layers of fabric away from Clint’s straining dick, but stupidly, when Clint drags his eyes up to see Coulson’s reaction, that green-eyed gaze is locked on Clint’s face.

“What-” Clint begins and Coulson leans in close, kisses him deep and lush as his hand wraps around Clint’s erection. “Fuck,” he moans. “Oh, _fuck_ , that’s good-”

“You’re unbelievable,” Coulson murmurs, and now he _is_ looking down, watching Clint fuck up into his fist, “my God, _look_ at you.”

Clint reaches out to grip the back of the sofa, either side of Coulson’s head, and he makes clumsy, lust-addled attempts at contact, a glancing kiss, hot breath in the other man’s ear, a low moan against his neck. “I’m close,” he chokes out. “I’m really-”

“I can’t wait to get my mouth on you,” Coulson whispers, like it’s a secret.

Clint very nearly whimpers, feels the tingle at the base of his spine that means he is so far past _close-_

“It’s been a while,” That familiar voice is low and rough all of a sudden, lighting up every nerve ending Clint has. “My technique won’t be much, but. I’m sure we’ll make do.”

“God,” Clint pants. “oh, _ohhh_ -”

“And Clint?” Coulson’s hand never pauses, driving him right up to the edge.

“Y-yeah?”

Coulson leans in until his lips brush against Clint’s ear with every word. “I fuck like a _dream_ ,” he says, soft and filthy.

Clint lets out a choked noise and comes all over them both.

 

 


	19. Divulge

 

 

Clint shudders through his orgasm with his face pressed to Coulson’s and when it’s over he’s aware of soft fingers stroking his face. He drags his eyes open and sees familiar green eyes locked on his, a familiar face flushed with colour and a familiar body thrumming with want.

“Hey,” he manages, and Coulson kisses him hungrily. Which reminds Clint of the insistent erection he’s straddling, and how much discomfort the other man must be in right now. He breaks the kiss, soaks in the tiny noise of protest Coulson makes so he can savour it later, and slithers down the other man’s body until his knees hit the floor.

_“Shit,”_ Coulson breathes, and Clint glances up from his lowering his zipper with a wicked, knowing smile. He takes his time, then, knowing how much Coulson is enjoying the visual, draws out that long, narrow cock, head shiny and leaking, strokes the back of one finger along its length and listens to the stutter in Coulson’s already heavy breathing.

On his way down Clint had been focused on one thing, getting Coulson off, but now that he’s on his knees he’s suddenly in no rush. Instead he’s utterly invested in blowing the older man’s fucking _mind_. So he locks eyes with Coulson as he leans in and doesn’t look away, doesn’t even blink as he leans in, opens his lips around the hard length, and takes it partway inside.

“Oh God,” Coulson says faintly. His hands clench on the sofa cushions as he stares down the length of his body.

Clint smiles around his mouthful, then lets his eyes flutter closed and gives himself up to sensations. The hard floor beneath his knees, the warm legs bracketing his body, the weight and shape in his mouth. He explores it, tongue and lips and suction, and runs his hands up under Coulson’s shirt, the light dusting of hair, the erect nipples that earn Clint a moan when he teases them with a thumb and finger.

“Clint,” Coulson murmurs, and he’s breathing faster. “I’m close,” he says, which is no real surprise, considering the long make-out session and how fucking long it’s taken for them to get here in the first place. Clint hums in acknowledgement and appreciation, and Coulson’s hips jerk, so Clint presses his hands down over the older man’s hipbones and really goes to town.

Coulson comes about twenty seconds later with a loud, shattered moan and the wave of joy that shoots through Clint at the sound of it is as devastating as a bullet.

 

 

 

“So. You like to talk dirty,” Clint says much later, slumped against the back of the couch.

Phil is mortified to find himself blushing.

“In all the years I’ve known you, that has got to be only the second or third time I’ve heard you say the word _fuck_ ,” Clint continues conversationally, “and the only other time I’m sure of is when you saw me get shot.”

“I’ve never been much of a one for profanity,” he says and prays that Clint will let him turn the conversation. Phil Coulson does not _blush_.

“How’d that go over in the Rangers?” Clint asks idle but speculative.

He shrugs. “I... probably conformed more to the norm back then,” he admits. “But Rangers aren’t a hive mind, and we don’t generally feel the same need to prove our badassness that, say, the Marines do.”

_“Zing,”_ Clint observes drily. “You want to trash-talk Delta and the teams, too?”

Phil hides a smile and nuzzles Clint’s throat instead. God he’s missed the archer’s smartass remarks. So much. So damn much.

“We really need to clean up,” Clint finally sighs.

“Mm-hmm.”

“But I’m hungry.”

He lets his hands roam for a second, possessive, then lets out a silent sigh. He has to let go at some point and hope he’ll get to have this again. “Why don’t you go on up, take a shower and I’ll bring you a sandwich,” Phil suggests.

“Mm,” Clint echoes. “Yeah...”

Coulson smiles to himself. He knows that sound. _God_ , he screws his eyes shut for a second to hold it all inside, but God he _knows this man_. That’s Barton secretly admitting he has to move but reluctant to do it. That’s Barton pushing past his recommended time on the range but too in love with his bow to walk away. It’s Barton eyeing the last slice of pizza when he’s already uncomfortably full.

“Go on,” he says, and drags himself away. Someone has to take care of this maniac, and, Thor willing, from this point on that person is going to be Phil Coulson. “Get upstairs.” He’s not above running his hands down the length of that beautiful body as he draws away, or getting an eyeful as Clint stretches on the couch. The archer grins lasciviously at him as Phil drags his zipper back up.

Phil flees into the kitchen before Barton can spot that he is damn well _blushing_ , again. This is getting _ridiculous_.

 

 

 

 

 

Of course, it’s all twisted up again by the time he climbs the stairs and finds Barton exiting the bathroom in jeans and nothing else, hair damp and distractingly messy.

“Thanks,” he says, and accepts the plate. Phil nods.

There’s a pause, classification: _awkward_.

Phil manages not to sigh, or wince. This was never going to be some easy-

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now,” Clint says, belligerent.

Phil channels his very best mild-mannered Agent schtick. “I’d suggest eating.”

Clint slants him a dirty look and Phil nods slowly in answer. Fair enough. He slides his hands into his pockets, watches Barton scrutinize the gesture. It’s not something he would have done as _Agent_ Coulson. Phil licks his lips and forces himself to say what he does not want to say.

“If you can’t let it go,” Phil says slowly. “What I did.” He stops then, not sure what comes after _if_.

_I’ll need to move on_ , he’d told the Director. But would he ever find the strength to try? He’s already had a taste of Life Without Barton. The weeks after Loki had been empty and dull, all the joy of life leached out of everything, in fact even the simple satisfactions of a job well done, of contributing, had meant nothing at all.

Right now, Phil can easily imagine a future where Barton breezes in and out of his life for a few days at a time, a fuckbuddy arrangement only, all the real intimacy gone. And if that’s all the other man can offer, Phil will absolutely accept, and then eat his heart out the other twenty-four days of every month.

Clint just looks at him.

“I mean,” Phil tries, “you can, _obviously_ you can move on, and-”

“Obviously?”

Phil hesitates. “The, the bartender.”

“What?”

He wants to jerk back from that flare of temper but at some point they have got to start communicating honestly, and it’s Phil’s responsibility to get them on that track, if he can. “You looked happy. That day on the jet. He obviously gave you something... something that perhaps-”

“You are _not_ going to make this about Zeke, fuck’s sake-”

“Clint,” he says, “that’s not what I’m doing. But I can’t just forget the way you looked. And – he called.”

“Is this your half-assed way of telling me you don’t want to try?”

“No!” that comes out far too swiftly, too naked, but Clint’s jaw unclenches fractionally.

Phil swallows and looks down at his hands.

“He, uh, had a message for you,” he says with difficulty. Damn it, he _cannot_ let go of the secret terror that Zeke Marinello is a far, _far_ better choice for the archer than Phil Coulson. That maybe Zeke’s message is exactly what will make Barton see what would be obvious to anyone else. “He said he- his door is always open to you...” Phil glances up but there’s no reaction to that, “and that he wishes you luck. The kind of luck he never had.”

And _that,_ oddly enough, is what gets a reaction.

Clint’s body jerks, his eyes locked on the far wall. “He said that?”

“Yes,” Phil confirms, frowning. Why would that be more important than an invitation?

“When?”

“I, uh, I spoke to him after you were injured.”

“ _You_ did?” Clint asks, gaze suddenly intent on Phil.

“Yes,” he answers, utterly confused.

There’s a pause, during which the archer obviously reins himself in, then Clint says calmly, “I can’t imagine you enjoyed that much.”

_Understatement_. Phil swallows to make sure he won’t lose control of his voice and replies, “It was necessary.”

“And Agent Coulson always does what’s necessary,” Clint says softly, watching him. It doesn’t sound like a compliment.

“I’m not Agent Coulson anymore.”

Clint’s mouth tugs down at the corner. “A part of you will always be Agent Coulson.”

Phil drags in a breath. “No,” he manages. “No. I was Private Coulson, then Sergeant Coulson, and then Agent Coulson, but none of them are all of me, none of them are the real me.”

“So I’ve never met the real you?” Clint challenges, and yeah, Phil can see the anger pushing to the surface now.

“ _This_ is the real me,” Phil says quietly. “But the man you knew is part of that. I’m a little less controlled than Agent Coulson, not quite as anal retentive, but I’m still me. And the man who came to care for you is the one standing in front of you now.”

Clint turns his face away, staring at the wall again. “Private, Sergeant, Agent,” he muses. “And what were you after that?”

For a moment Phil frowns, confused, then he realizes what Clint is asking. He licks his lips, wondering how the archer will react to this. “Just plain mister. Phil Francis.”

Clint blinks. _“Francis?”_

Phil nods.

He stares incredulously, then shakes his head. “You honest to _Christ_ used my middle name in your cover?”

Phil gives a slow blink. “My shrink’s current theory is that I was punishing myself.”

“No _shit,_ ” Clint manages. “Jesus, it’s not Del Rey, is it? Because that would be just too-”

“No,” Phil says hurriedly. “No SHIELD personnel.”

“No, of course not,” Clint laughs without humor. “What the fuck was I thinking. So where the hell did you find a shrink with the security clearance to cope with your story?”

Phil takes a breath and says, “FBI.”

“FB- _what?_ ”

“I’ve been working as a consultant at Quantico,” he offers. “Part of the package is health benefits... I decided I might need some help with-” he shrugs helplessly.

“Yeah, no shit you might need help with a near death experience and then giving up your _whole fucking life_ ,” Clint mutters darkly. “You didn’t tell the whole story, though.”

Phil shakes his head. “Couldn’t risk it. I was still hopeful at that stage of coming back and confessing the whole ugly story. The last thing I wanted was for rumor to beat me to it-” he stops abruptly. Then clears his throat and finishes the story because he _has_ learned a lesson from this whole mess. “I said that I had been working undercover for so long that my life no longer felt real.”

Clint laughs again, a little more bitterly this time.

“And then I told him I had feelings for someone I’d been forced to leave behind.”

Barton wheels away sharply at that, crosses to his bag and drags out a t-shirt. He pulls it on, then picks up the sandwich and eats it in quick, neat bites, standing up in front of the window. Phil watches him for a minute, then jogs down the stairs to retrieve something from his own bag.

He hesitates at the top of the stairs, but Barton puts the plate down and turns, meeting his eyes. The morning light behind him outlines his powerful shoulders, the painful beauty of that face that is currently revealing nothing at all.

Phil swallows and forces himself onward. It’s no harder than Ranger School, when his feet had already been bleeding inside his boots at the start of an all-night march.

 

 


	20. Disclose

 

 

Coulson is standing at the top of the stairs, looking uncertain. It sets Clint’s heart to thudding, because _Agent_ Coulson never shows any uncertainty. Clint’s not a moron, he knows the man must have occasionally felt scared on an op, or unsure during a briefing, but sure as hell he never _showed_ it. And right now Clint’s not ready for what it means that this version of the man is letting him see these things. _Take it slow_ , Coulson had said downstairs. He might have had a point.

“You know I love lists.”

Clint nods.

“Do you want to see the list I started over three years ago?”

He hesitates, nervous. “When?”

“After Benghazi.”

Clint stops with his hand still outstretched for the crumpled piece of paper. Benghazi had been... Clint had taken a _bullet to the lung_ in Benghazi. Coulson had carried him ten city blocks to an evac point and hadn’t left his bedside in Naples for two weeks. It had also been the last time he’d used Clint’s first name, until that day in the restaurant.

He swallows. “Is it a list of ways I made your life difficult?”

“A list of all the many things about Clint Barton that I couldn’t help noticing, no matter how hard I tried.”

Clint reads, heart thumping, and at first there’s nothing much to surprise.

COURAGE

PROTECTIVE

COCKY

QUICK MIND

PLAYFUL

SUPERIOR AIM

PATIENT

CALM NATURE

LOVING

HIS FOREARMS

He stops and reads that twice. Can still hear Zeke’s voice saying, _do me a favour, roll up your sleeves_. Then he reads on, heart beating fast.

LOYALTY

HIS ASS

He blinks twice at that one and swallows, can barely force himself to keep reading Coulson’s thin, spiky script.

NON JUDGEMENTAL

UNWAWARE OF HIS OWN APPEAL

MORAL

“You. You wrote this.”

Coulson nods tightly.

“ _Years_ ago.”

He nods again.

“But.” Clint stops.

Coulson waits.

“Benghazi was. That was when you-”

“When I began to distance myself from you,” Coulson finishes grimly. “Yes.”

Clint has never felt so unbalanced without actually having his feet kicked out from under him. It’s not just the list - but Coulson _admitting_ that he had pulled back from Clint. Coulson doesn’t admit shit like that, he misdirects and avoids and just somehow cuts off questions like that before they’re ever born. This is- he’s answering like Clint has the right to ask, like he’s been waiting to spill every secret-

“I don’t understand this,” Clint says crazily. “I don’t – _why_ are you doing this?”

“I’m trying to- to show you the real me,” Coulson says, and spreads his hands. “You’re worried you don’t know me, and there’s some truth to that because – because what we had before was predominantly a professional relationship, no matter that there were real feelings there. This is- this was me,” he gestures to the list, “trying to figure out how I felt, and what I should do.”

“Which was nothing,” Clint says flatly, and Coulson goes silent. Clint eyes him, knows exactly what he’s thinking. That he can’t apologize for that. Or, he won’t. That it was the only ethical decision.

Then Clint sighs. He runs a hand through his hair. “I’m tired,” he says, and he means physically, mentally, _everything_.

“You should get some rest,” Coulson says, neutral. “Your body’s been through an ordeal-”

Clint cannot help the flashing smile that lights up his face at that remark. “Not-” Coulson starts, almost stuttering.

“Not the orgasm?” Clint murmurs, and he is not a nice person because he is really enjoying being able to fluster the older man. “Yeah, I know,” he says, sobering again. But he doesn’t move. There are a lot of thoughts in his head, jumbling together. In the end he says low and rapid, “Will you... stay?”

Coulson blinks, and then Clint gestures toward the still-rumpled bed, trying not to flush (his turn to be flustered) as he says, “Not- not to. Just to. Be near.”

He wants so bad it’s like a hunger, to be close to the other man like that. And perhaps more, the reassurance that Coulson is _here_ , hasn’t left, won’t leave, and the chance for Clint to show he isn’t angry, or at least not right this minute.

Baby steps, he supposes. It’s not like he has a clue how to have a real relationship, he’s making this shit up as he goes along.

“Yes,” Coulson says roughly. “Of course.”

So Clint turns away, puts the list down on the table next to the bed and shucks off his jeans, slides under the covers in boxers and a t-shirt. Coulson is moving around in the bathroom, and finally emerges, dressed the same, and climbs into the bed without a word.

They’ve had to do this before, on ops, but it all feels very different. Clint lies on his side, facing Coulson, for one thing, which he’d never been able to risk before, and the other man mirrors him. Clint takes a breath and reaches out slowly, takes hold of Coulson’s hand and draws it close.

“Zeke,” he says, without really thinking it through.

Coulson’s whole body jerks, like he’s been shocked, or shot, or stabbed. He doesn’t make a sound but all the colour goes out of his face. Clint grips his hand on instinct, which is lucky, because it’s pretty much the only thing that keeps Coulson in the bed, he’s pretty sure.

“Hey, no,” he says, cursing his stupid fucking mouth. “Don’t-”

He can see Coulson regather himself, put on the mask of calm, and it hurts like a punch because it’s so familiar, the Agent Coulson face.

“I don’t want you to... worry about him,” Clint says quickly. “Don’t want you thinking that he’s some... rival.”

Coulson lifts his eyes to Clint’s. He’s schooled his expression but it’s all there in his eyes. He _does_. He totally thinks Clint would throw him over for a _one night fucking stand_.

For a moment Clint is furious with him, then he thinks, _Susan_ , and remembers that it’s not always possible to be rational. Because he’d known Coulson didn’t love her, not really. There had been something missing in his expression when he talked about her. But she’d still had the one thing Clint wanted, and he’d feared and loathed her for it, without ever once meeting the poor woman.

“The way I looked. It wasn’t, it didn’t mean what you think.”

Coulson swallows slowly, and his hand opens up, lies flat on the bed. Clint looks down at it, begins to run his thumb over the palm, tracing the lifelines, massaging the soft skin as he speaks because he can’t look the other man in the eye when he says this.

“You were right,” he says. “I knew that you thought Tasha and I were still together.” Coulson’s fingers flex. “And I left it that way because, because that way you’d have less reason to suspect how I felt about you, and my secret was safe.”

Coulson’s fingers curl up, grasp Clint’s thumb for a second, a mini-hug, and then he flattens out his hand again, waiting for the rest.

“But that meant,” Clint added, head down, “ that I couldn’t... see anyone else. Because then- you’d have known. Or looked deeper.”

Coulson breathes in sharply.

“So I’ve been alone, as far as that goes, for a while.”

“Clint,” Coulson whispers, shocked or worried or... something.

“So that night, with Zeke,” he goes on hastily, eyes on Coulson’s hand. “I was-” He closes his eyes, shakes his head. He’s still embarrassed, is the thing. But it’s wrong that Zeke knows this about him and Coulson doesn’t. So he forces himself to say, “I cried. I actually, if you can believe that, fucking _cried_ , in the middle of – poor guy brings home a one-night stand and-”

 _“Clint,”_ Coulson says, voice breaking and then he’s kissing and everything feels better, just, instantly.

“He was good to me, okay,” Clint gasps, pulling back just a second. “He was so fucking _nice_ , it kind of made me feel worse, actually, but he didn’t treat me like a freak and I just, it helped. Felt like maybe I could find a way through this, eventually. And that’s why, I guess, I looked better when you saw me.”

Coulson is breathing fast, face pressed to Clint’s, and he nods wordlessly, brings his other hand up to stroke Clint’s face and it seems to crisis has passed because they’re both relaxing, bodies rolling together.

“I’m so sorry,” Coulson whispers, and Clint just nods, doesn’t say _not your fault_ because he knows that’s not what the other man means, that it’s more a _how did I not see_ and _why didn’t I know_ and overarching regret for the mess they’ve both made of their past.

They fall asleep on their sides, facing one another. Clint’s pretty sure he’s the first one to fall asleep, having nudged forward enough to press his face to Coulson’s throat. But the last thing he remembers is feeling Coulson’s cool fingers reach out to circle his wrist, just holding on.

He doesn’t try to fight off the smile as he slides into sleep.

 

 


	21. Rage

“Now _that_ is a view I’ll never get tired of,” Clint says lazily. He splashes his toes in the water and soaks up the sunlight, leaning back on his arms. His various cuts and bruises are almost gone, nothing stung when he went in the water, and it feels like he can hear everything, see everything.

Coulson is communing with water spirits or something, out in the middle of the lake.

Clint can swim, okay? He can stay afloat, he can pass tests wearing his fucking boots, as required, but he is not what anyone would call _a swimmer_.

Coulson is like a goddam seal – not the Navy kind, an actual animal kingdom seal. Or, no- an otter, maybe? He slides through the water with ease, a kind of restrained elegance to his moves that Clint can only envy. He barely makes a ripple unless he wants to and he covers serious ground with seemingly no effort.

Coulson rolls onto his back and sends a smile Clint’s way. “I could say the same,” he calls back softly, and Clint laughs, shakes his head. Then the smile drops from his face and he takes one deep breath, eyes flicking toward the man surfacing thirty yards away in the middle of the lake.

Coulson shifts to tread water, watching Clint with narrowed eyes. Clint flicks two fingers sideways and rolls to his feet, rubbing a towel over his wet head, down his chest and arms. “You want a beer?” he calls, already starting up the bank. He tips his head to the right, as if shaking water from his ear.

“Always,” Coulson replies, then dives casually under the water and disappears from view.

Clint feels better with the knife in his left hand, concealed by the towel, but he still hustles straight for the spot where he’d stashed his bow, and thirty seconds after _that_ he’s in the backup nest he’d identified the first day they arrived. His first choice, which gave a view of the road as well as the lake, is too far from Coulson’s current position.

Clint has enough time to get completely still and let the forest noises sink in around him before he sees them. Four men, all clad in ominous black, all armed, three of them look like they sprinkle steroids on their Weeties and mostly know what they’re doing while the fourth – the fourth must be the one Clint heard. Even from behind it’s easy to tell the guy isn’t used to this kind of terrain.

Could be an urban specialist, or a trainee. Could just be a dickhead who refuses to listen to his security experts. Either way, he’s done Clint and Coulson a solid by coming along today.

Clint’s not... _worried_ , exactly. He knows better than most just what Coulson can do, and they’ve had enough warning to be ready, holiday or not.

But. It’s different. Coulson was right, relationships between people who go into the field together are a stupidly bad idea. He knows the feel of the other man’s skin now, knows the weight of his cock in Clint’s mouth, the sound he makes when he’s utterly unguarded and content.

Worse than all of that though, is that he knows what it feels like to _lose_ Coulson.

It has his hands a fraction tighter on the bow, his nerves a little more hair-trigger.

Clint swallows, swears inside his head and rubs his thumb over StarkIndustries logo on the bow as if for luck. Then he does what’s second nature, draws and sights along the shaft and evaluates his best sightlines as two of the guys move forward, toward the lake, one fading back and dragging the noisy tourist with them. Bow still firmly fixed on the first two, he tracks the third and fourth guys as far as he can before they disappear from view. He can still hear them for a good twenty seconds longer, though.

“Gentlemen,” he hears Coulson say, sounding for all the world like someone’s tax attorney on vacation. Clint’s grin is completely involuntary.

He turns his eyes back to where the action is. Coulson has surfaced right where the bank meets the water, almost at the intruders’ feet and they startle back in a way that says they’re already nervous. Clint’s smile widens. They have _no_ fucking _idea_.

“Out of the water,” one of them says, trying for hard and sounding nervy instead. Their rifles dip to point straight at Coulson, who doesn’t even blink.

“But I might catch a chill,” Coulson says, totally reasonable. “You guys don’t have a towel, do you?”

“Get the fuck out of the water,” the other guy says. He has a twig caught in his shirt collar, sticking straight up behind his ear, he looks freakin’ _ridiculous_.

Coulson shifts just slightly, coming a little higher out of the water and his tattoo comes into view.

Both guys go still. “You’re a _Ranger?”_ one of them says. His voice – that would be the sound of fear.

Clint struggles not to roll his eyes. What the hell did their employer _tell_ them? That they were coming to pick up some rich industrialist and his boy toy? He’d shake his head if it wouldn’t screw with his line of sight. These clowns deserve all they get for not doing their research.

“ _Sua Sponte,_ ” Coulson says with what should be a mild smile. But the guys at the lake’s edge take an involuntary step back.

Then something happens, presumably their dickhead employer says something over comms because they stiffen, and Clint thinks, _fuck this shit,_ and lets an arrow fly to hit Twig straight in the ass. Coulson, of course, is already sliding sideways, the gun he’d stashed under the grassy bank firing and hitting Nervy just above the knee.

The two of them go down with simultaneous screams and a scattering of gunfire that makes Clint’s gut clench, but he draws another arrow and swings his torso to the left with the discipline that comes from years of training and even more years of trust. He scans for movement and gets it. Guy No3 starts forward, breaking cover like a complete amateur, then obviously realizes, far too late, what a Bad Idea that was.

Clint’s almost regretful - this guy is the best of a bad bunch - but puts an arrow in his shoulder anyway. No3 goes down with a dull grunt, never losing grip of his weapon. Yep, the best of the three, but that’s not saying much. Tourist is staring down at No3, clearly horrified, and frozen with indecision. Then he twitches his shoulders and starts to run, and the movement is so familiar Clint almost falls out of his perch.

“You _fucker_ ,” he breathes, and drops out of the tree with more rage than finesse.

 


	22. Stumble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, I've had this ready for over a day but AO3 was toying with me. Then I finally figured out that trying another browser might work (duh).   
> Please enjoy

 

Clint doesn’t even try for stealth, he crashes through the woods like a moose on rollerskates but he is so full of black rage it honestly feels like he could repel bullets right now by _sheer force of will_.

Chandler knows he’s coming – the arrow being the kind of giant fucking clue not even _he_ can miss – but Clint’s better than him, meaner than him and honest to God he just _wants it more_. He drops the bow and feints left, watches his former handler’s weapon track that way and then Clint simply launches into an easy leap, grips a low branch and swings himself to the right, leading with his feet as he twists his body around the tree trunk.

It’s been a long time since the circus but he hasn’t let himself get rusty. He has one flashing moment to think how much Tia the Brazilian trapeze artist would appreciate seeing Clint slam his feet straight into this dickhead’s chest and lay him flat on the forest floor. And then he lands, and the circus floats away leaving only Hawkeye the sniper.

_“You,”_ he snarls, drops onto Chandler’s chest knees-first and slams a fist into his jaw, relishes the grunt of pain. “You fucking _waste_ of _space_.” Some semblance of training pushes through the emotion and he drags the weapon out of Chandler’s slack hand, tosses it aside and pats him down.

“You goddam _asshole,”_ Clint grits out, and hauls the guy upright. His knife just appears at Chandler’s throat without any prior planning. It feels natural, it feels right. Would feel _so much better_ sliding in, ending it-

Chandler gasps as the extra pressure draws blood, “Wait,” he says, “please.”

“Who are you working for? You the leak that sold Tasha to VIPER?”

Chandler’s eyes go wide. Resigning from SHIELD is the _best decision Clint ever made_ , because he can totally clean this guy’s clock and not face a single repercussion from it.

“He’s working for the World Security Council,” Coulson says from behind him and Clint freezes.

“Wait, _what?_ ” From the corner of his eye he sees shapes he recognizes – Coulson has stopped on the way to disarm Nervy, Twig and No3, their rifles slung over his left shoulder, his own pistol held securely in his right. Traces of blood on his hands means he did some field first aid, too, because he’s a boy scout who doesn’t carry grudges. Clint carries them for him.

Chandler swallows audibly, which sounds like confirmation to Clint.

“The _Council?_ ” Clint asks, and he’s equal parts not willing to trust what he’s heard, and just plain fucking confused. “Why the _hell_ would the Council-”

“Both the director and Mr Stark defied the Council during the battle of New York,” Coulson says, sounding tired. “These are not the type of people to let that slide.”

Clint lets go of Chandler’s shirt and staggers to his feet, knife still firmly clenched in his fist. He turns away, knowing Coulson has the enemy covered, their usual field rhythm as natural and easy as ever. He paces a few steps away and drags in a huge breath, trying to settle his thoughts out of rage and into strategy. It helps to collect his bow from where he dropped it, run his fingers over the surfaces. Clint and this bow haven’t had a lot of time together, but she’s a beauty, he can tell that much already. When he turns back it’s to take in the sight of his former handler lying on his back, eyes wide as he stares up at the man he replaced.

Dripping wet, wearing only skin-tight swim shorts, Phil Coulson is still one impressive fucking sight as he surveys Chandler with cool appraisal. “Agent Chandler,” he says, like they’re meeting in a boardroom. “If this is your idea of a field readiness test, I’d have to say only one team passed.”

Then he looks over at Clint, who is already braced for another blow.

Coulson sighs. “It’s the main reason why the Director asked me... the Council insisted the Avengers have a new handler, and he suspected that if the team knew I had survived...”

“Yeah, no,” Clint manages, steps down hard on Chandler’s arm to stop an abortive attempt at escape, “I can’t see anyone going for that.”

Coulson just nods, like he’s exhausted thinking about all of this. _Again_.

“So...” Clint turns his attention back to Chandler. “What the fuck is your first name, anyway. I’m not addressing you like a professional, that’s just insulting to everyone else who came before you.”

“Rick,” he chokes out.

_“Rick,”_ Clint says. “Let me guess how this started. You read his reports. Watched some footage of our ops. Coulson makes it look easy, so, like a moron you actually believed that what he does is, therefore, _just that fucking easy_. Am I right?”

Chandler glares at him, full of resentment.

“And then you arrive at SHIELD, ready for your big moment, only to realize you don’t have a fucking clue how to do any of it, that it’s actually not easy at all, and it all starts to implode. You try to control the team instead of working as a part of it, and when the team gives you the finger, you slink off to brood about it and nurture dumbass ideas. And now here you are, having decided-” and here Clint hesitates, because this part makes _no_ fucking sense _at all_. He nudges _Rick_ with one foot.

“What the hell was your half-assed plan, exactly? Kidnap us both and try some brainwashing? Plant evidence that we were traitors? Kill Coulson and frame me for it?”

Rick’s eyes go wide.

“Oh for fuck’s sake. _Seriously?_ ” Though it explains his three amateur side-kicks. The Council are bureaucrats, they probably picked the three biggest soldiers they saw and figured that would get the job done. Morons. No respect for skill _or_ training. No idea what creativity, efficiency and ruthlessness can accomplish.

“You’re clearly unstable,” Rick says wildly. “It’s not that far-fetched.”

“Actually, it _is_ ,” Coulson says, his eyes hard. And Clint is not going to admit that his heart is clenching over this, because Coulson can listen to a plot that ends up with him dead and not turn a hair, but can’t cope with hearing this asshat call Clint unstable. The two of them are so screwed up they actually might be perfect for each other.

“You know,” Clint says seriously, because he can’t stand to see the older man looking like that. “He actually has a point. I think I might require around the clock supervision.” When Coulson looks at him he widens his eyes and bats his lashes. “I mean, really. _Close_ monitoring. Super close.”

“Is that what the kids are calling it nowadays,” Coulson says, a faint smile touching his eyes.

Clint smirks and hauls Chandler to his feet by the neck. “Though I think I draw the line at cameras in the house,” he adds. “I have no interest in becoming this year’s Paris Hilton.” Chandler glances from Coulson’s face to Clint’s like he’s at a tennis match, and he’s looking increasingly confused with every word.

“When the Council hears-” he begins to bluster.

Phil’s eyebrow lifts as he strips the weapons their would-be attackers dropped, ignoring their prisoner completely. “You do know that if managed right, a clip like that could fund both our retirements.”

Clint rolls his eyes as he starts frogmarching Chandler toward the cabin. “Like Stark isn’t going to end up buying the team its own island, seriously, that guy cannot help himself.”

Coulson falls into step with Clint, “I am _not_ retiring on _Tony Stark’s_ dime,” and he sounds truly pissed off for the first time in days. Is it wrong that it cheers Clint’s heart to hear it?

“We can negotiate something,” Clint offers generously. He steers Chandler’s shoulder into a large branch as they walk, mean enough to enjoy the gasp of pain. “I mean, it’s not like I’m thrilled about letting you laze on a beach that offers sightlines of Captain America in a swimsuit, but I’m prepared to make sacrifices. Government pensions are for shit, man, and you know we’re both going to have health problems - between my shoulders and wrists, and your back? Forget about it. And that’s not even counting all the revenge/security concerns-”

Phil is squinting up at the sky as the cabin comes into view. “Did you call someone?” He runs a comprehensive glance over Clint’s body that has his face and neck running hot. “Where _exactly_ did you conceal a phone?”

He inclines his head toward the bow slung over his shoulder. “Stark,” he says with a shrug.

Coulson makes an absolutely hilarious face that’s part comprehension, part pissy annoyance.

Iron Man lands with the usual heavy thud, fist down, like every photo op Clint’s ever seen. “Hawkeye,” he says as he stands, clomps over to them. There’s a pause, then he says, “Agent.”

“Stark,” Coulson returns.

“Are you guys seeing this?” Stark asks, presumably on comms to the rest of the team. “Did anyone else know this is what Agent was concealing under those suits?”

Coulson twitches, and Clint bites his lip hard trying not to laugh.

“Uh, so _Rick_ here tried to kill us,” Clint says, before somebody says something they might regret.

“Uh-huh,” Iron Man says. “Yeah, I never liked you.” Chandler jerks against Clint’s hands but seems to disheartened to speak.

Then Stark tilts his head like he’s listening and says, “Cap wants to know if Rick the Di- fine, sorry, I won’t say it, if our ex-handler was acting alone, and Thor wants to pay his compliments to the Son of Coul’s body adornment? _Oh_ , the tattoo. Yeah, buddy, that’s kind of, well. Ask Widow to explain it to you. It basically means Agent graduated from badass school.”

“Three accomplices,” Coulson says, his tone flat. “Wounded, in the woods to the north-east. Perhaps you could go and mark their position.” _Or perhaps you go could straight to hell_ , his tone implies.

 “No rush,” Stark says, and flips up his faceplate. “You’re looking better, Barton.”

“Well I got my sight and hearing back since we last visited,” Clint says dryly, even though he knows perfectly well what Stark means. It had been pretty hard to miss, looking in the mirror when he’d woken up from his nap. His face is less strained, eyes clear.

He looks – _happy_.

“Yeah, I really don’t think that’s it, somehow,” Stark says, sardonic eyebrows in full force, and he still looks kind of pissed whenever he glances Coulson’s way. How could Clint have forgotten how complicated his life is – his _real_ life, not this little cocoon they’ve been living in?

“Well, I finally managed to finish _Fifty Shades of Grey_ ,” Clint says, and shoves Rick toward a huge rotting log where he lands with a grunt. “So that’s probably it. It was really bugging me, worrying whether or not those two would work it all out, you know?”

“Ah-huh,” Stark replies, and stomps over to stare down at their former handler. “Yeah. Getting overinvested in star-crossed lovers. Huh. Nobody on this team would know anything about that, nope, nup, not even-”

“What, exactly, is the ETA on the jet?” Coulson interrupts tightly.

Stark flicks a dismissive eyebrow and manages to shrug, which is no mean feat considering the bulk of the suit. “Eh. Who knows. The FAA, joyriders, plus, I’m pretty sure Widow isn’t actually licensed for that make of jet-”

“ _Stark_ ,” Coulson breaks in, “How far out?”

“How long is the proverbial-”

“Stark-” Clint tries, before somebody’s head explodes.

Brown eyes are suddenly fixed on his face. “No,” he says, hard and angry. “ _You_ can forgive all you want but the way I see it is - strike one, threatened to taze me, strike two, Fury’s devoted little minion, and strike three, he. Made. Pepper. _Cry._ ”

“Do you people even _hear yourselves?_ ” Chandler suddenly bursts out, “I mean, seriously-”

No-one even looks his way as Clint pushes back. “Yeah? Well strike four through to ten fucking thousand, _broke my fucking heart_ so you can get in line, Stark-”

“Friend Hawkeye!” Thor booms as he slams to the ground and creates what has got to be the awkwardest silence Clint has ever witnessed - and he was there the time Fury’s eyepatch got caught in a gale-force wind and flipped up to expose his damaged eye socket to a bunch of Venturer Scouts as they queued up to use the restrooms in Yosemite National Park.

Clint submits to the hug, again, because – _again_ – he hasn’t figured out how _not_ to, and watches with undisguised interest as Thor turns toward Coulson.

“Son of Coul,” the blonde says, restrained, and yet, not... well. Clint had expected angry. Had sort of wanted to see angry, if he’s honest. Clint is _not_ a nice person.

“Thor,” Coulson returns tightly. His face is flushed and Clint suddenly recalls what he just blurted out in front of an audience... _yeah._ Right. Probably not his smartest move ever.

“Would you mind gathering up the wounded we left in the field?” Coulson goes on, and Thor nods gravely, swings Mjolnir and is gone. Which is when Clint puts together that Coulson must have spent time with the team at the hospital, so those awkward conversations have already happened.

Probably better he didn’t witness that stuff. He’s making enough of a mess with his own issues without taking on anyone else’s angst.

 


	23. Missed

 

 

“What are you going to do now?” Clint asks out of the blue as they watch the jet lift off.

“I was thinking a hot cup of coffee sounds good,” Phil says absently, “maybe finish off those brownies.”

Fury, Sitwell and the team are going to sort out this mess. It’s not Phil’s problem. His SHIELD badge and SHIELD-issue sidearm are on that jet. It’s the final break and he watches until it’s a tiny dot on the horizon, as if he can feel the moment when that imaginary tie just snaps.

“No, I mean. Long-term.”

Phil freezes.

“You liked Quantico?” Clint asks, calm as anything.

Phil shrugs because he doesn’t want to say, _I didn’t like anything - how could I when you weren’t there_. That’s a little... co-dependent. “It was fine,” he finally says.

“Damned with faint praise,” Clint says with a lift of his brows. “So, what’s your plan.”

“Don’t have one,” Phil says and turns to head inside the house. _Fleeing the scene_ , he thinks ruefully.

“Yeah, right,” Clint hoots.

He doesn’t reply, just goes inside and drags on some clothes, trying not to think about the fact that he just appeared in front of his entire team – _former_ team – in only a wet pair of shorts. When he finally turns to face Clint, the other man is patiently waiting, eyes curious and amused.

“I don’t have a plan,” Phil repeats. Then he waits.

“Of course you have a plan,” Clint says with the beginnings of a frown. “You’re Phil Coulson, you always have a plan, a backup plan and three contingencies.”

“Apparently that’s not true anymore,” Phil says simply. “I don’t have any plans.”

There’s a long silence. Clint straightens, arms falling to his sides in shock, like Phil had said _I have stage four cancer_ or _don’t move or I’ll shoot_. “You’re telling me you quit SHIELD and walked away from your entire career without any idea of what came next.”

Phil inclines his head. His heart is beating far too fast for what should be a simple conversation.

Clint frowns, and then his eyes narrow. “You’re playing me,” he says flatly.

Phil closes his eyes. “No,” he says softly, “Clint, I’m not.”

“You threw it all away because – what, because I was hurt?” he scoffs.

“I made the decision before you were injured,” Phil says.

“And what prompted this _decision?_ ”

Phil hesitates. He’s sure this answer is the wrong one but he’s also sure he can’t afford to ever lie or obscure the truth with Barton again. “I realized I had made a massive miscalculation with... your reaction to my death.”

A short, sharp laugh. “No _shit_. That still doesn’t explain why you would-”

“I knew you’d never even consider trusting my word again as long as I was a part of SHIELD.” _As long as I was still connected to Fury_ might be more accurate, but.

He sees the accuracy of that hit home, then Clint frowns. “You’re saying you walked away from your career so that I would – what. Give you another chance?”

The disbelief shouldn’t burn, but it absolutely does. Phil just stands there, waiting.

 

 

 

Clint takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself. It’s stupid to get so caught up in this every time. “Look,” he says quietly, “I know that you’re being ...careful. Trying not to upset me. But I _know y_ ou, and I know damn well you would never make a major life decision like that without having explored all your options. If you think I won’t like one of your ideas or something, you should maybe give me a little more credit-”

“I knew you wouldn’t believe me,” Coulson says, flat. “It’s why I didn’t bring this up. Maybe you should give _me_ a little more credit and just tell me openly that you think I’m a liar-”

Clint explodes, “How the _hell_ am I supposed to trust– you say that you _wanted me_ – _all that time,_ you wanted me and instead of _telling_ me, you faked your own fucking death and fucking _left me_ in the ruins.”

“ _You_ _hid it from me first_.” The words just burst out of Coulson, like they’ve been long-buried under tonnes of rock. “ _You’re_ the one who-” the older man reins it back in with difficulty, breath coming faster, and Clint stares, heart thudding.

“No, he bites out, “don’t stop. Don’t you fucking _dare_ stop now. That was some genuine emotion there, so let’s have it. God knows it would make a nice change-”

“You _wanted me,_ and you _hid it_ ,” Coulson breaks in raggedly. “You _knew_ I thought you were still with Romanov. What other decision could I possibly make, based on that information? You honestly think I’d make a pass at an Agent who never displayed any kind of romantic interest in me, and was apparently involved with another asset?”

Clint looks away. “You never would have,” he says dully. “There was no point-”

“But you _don’t know that_ ,” Coulson shouts.

Coulson.

_Shouts_.

Clint staggers back a little, eyes wide.

“You made that decision for both of us when you decided to hide your feelings from me. I hid what I was feeling because it would have been unethical for me to act. What’s _your_ excuse, _Hawkeye?”_

The older man is shaking with the force of his emotions and Clint just stares. Then Coulson swallows, averts his eyes and half-turns away. He breathes deep for a while, hands clenching and unclenching.

“When I woke up in that hospital,” he says, very quietly. “All I could think about was you. Did Widow manage to get you back. Had Loki killed you when he was done with you. Was there any part of this world still standing. Nick told me, he swore it was all okay and I didn’t believe him. Not for one _second_ did I believe that. They had to sedate me-”

He scrubs a hand over his face and chokes out, “It was days later when I woke up again, and this time Nick was ready. He had footage. Showed me the battle, showed me the Helicarrier under repair, New York rebuilding.” He swallows and says more slowly, “Showed me the team assembling.”

Clint just stands there, frozen. He’d never asked about this. Too angry to think about it, to imagine the other side.

“And I saw you _. I was dead_ ,” he draws a rattling breath, fist clenching. “Gone for five weeks or so, from your point of view.” Coulson raises his eyes to the window and stares out dully as he says, “I watched you fight, watched you sit still for medical attention after, read multiple reports describing your well-balanced behaviour. I _watched you_ , Clint, and you were fine.”

Coulson finally turns and looks him right in the eye. “I was gone from your life, forever, and _you were all right,”_ he spits out bitterly. “I wasn’t needed, I was barely even _missed_.”

He hadn’t known Coulson could ever sound so broken.

“So _you_ tell _me_ ,” Coulson finishes, all of a sudden sounding remote, eerily calm. “You tell me, _Barton_ , who exactly, betrayed _who?_ ”

 

 


	24. Reconcile

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to say, sorry these are so short. I've been out of buffer for a while, so I'm posting what I have as I go, I think most of you would prefer to get frequent updates...  
> yeah, anyway.  
> Rest assured I have the actual ending written, it's just the several chapters between now and then that I have to um, y'know, write.  
> Please enjoy

 

Clint stares around the empty cabin for a long time after that. Coulson is outside, which suddenly seems like an uncomfortably large place, to Clint. He could be outside-on-the-porch or he could be outside-on-the-phone-to-Fury-preparing-to-leave.

Clint sighs and shakes his head at himself. Ok, shit, he knows that’s not what Coulson’s doing. And the other man fucked up, no doubt, but they’re never going to get anywhere if Clint keeps on feeding his own paranoia and hurt with made-up scenarios about Coulson leaving, or falling back in with Fury.

He _knows_ Phil Coulson. Maybe he’s discovering new and interesting things about the man but they’re _facets_ , new angles – not a complete change of nature. This is like seeing a diamond in a dimly lit room, and then again under a bright light. It’s still the same diamond, and Clint needs to start acting like it.

So when he steps out onto the porch half an hour later he can admit he’s not particularly surprised to see Coulson leaning against the railing, face calm once more, mouth a little tight.

Clint doesn’t speak, just walks over and waits. Coulson meets his eyes, then glances down at what’s in his hands. His eyebrows flick up for just a half-second, then he reaches for one of the steaming mugs balanced on top of an ancient cake tin they’d found at the back of the cupboard. He picks up the correct cup, of course, because Clint always carries his own coffee on the left, Coulson’s (or Tasha’s) in his right, and he set them down on the lid the same way.

Clint looks down at the mugs, bemused, and thinks, _We really do know each other_.

Then Coulson plucks up the other mug, and Clint levers off the lid to reveal the remains of the brownie and two spoons. Coulson would have brought forks – classier – but Clint was hungry a lot as a kid, so he likes to chase down all the crumbs, and spoons are better for that. Clint slides the lid underneath and crosses to the stairs, sits down with the brownie on his right so they can both keep their dominant hand free while they eat, just in case. There’s a moment where Coulson doesn’t move, then he takes a steady breath in and follows, sits down on the other side of the brownie and passes Clint his coffee.

They eat in silence, spoons not tangling because Coulson is a freak who likes nuts in his brownies and Clint can’t stand them so, as usual, they’d baked half-and-half.

“You eat nuts any other time,” Coulson says quietly, rehashing an age-old argument.

“I don’t like surprises in my baked goods,” Clint bats back, as always. “Soft gooey brownie is soft. Hard nutty snack bar is hard. Pure logic.”

“No sense of adventure,” Coulson says, lips twitching. It eases something in Clint’s chest to see it.

“I know,” Clint nods sagely. “I guess the circus made me the conventional soul that I am. It’s why a staid, safe career with SHIELD was the perfect safe haven for me.”

Coulson tenses at the word SHIELD, but Clint had made very sure his voice stayed calm and when there are no explosions, Coulson  swallows down the last bite of brownie, then frowns at the empty tin. “I’m going to need to start running seriously again,” he muses.

Clint slants a wry glance his way. “Yeah,” he offers, because he really does suck at playing it safe, “can’t have you getting a soft middle in your early retirement.”

Coulson freezes and glares at him. “I never said it was retirement, I’m not _retiring_ -”

“Relax, Ph-grampa,” Clint cuts in, and covers with a smirk, “you totally kicked the asses of a bunch of twentysomethings an hour ago, your military cred is safe for today.”

There’s a long silence, Coulson staring down at the spoon in his hand. Finally he sighs and lays it back in the tin, cups his palms around his coffee and says, “I’m aware I have options, of course I am. I suppose it was... disingenuous of me to pretend my future is something I’ve given no thought to. I’ve considered different scenarios. I suppose it becomes automatic to think in a certain way after a lifetime of-”

“Hey, no,” Clint says, “stop. You don’t have to prove anything. I’m sorry I was an asshole about it. I just,” he shrugs and puffs out a breath as he searches for the right words. “I keep having these moments of disconnect between the guy I snuggled with this morning and the guy who _knew where the fucking town library was_ in Jaipur when our comms went down.”

Coulson’s jaw works and he says, low, to his coffee, “Maybe you can’t reconcile the two. Maybe it’s just not-”

“Nope,” Clint says, “fuck that noise. I never in a million years thought this was in the cards for me, no way I’m letting something stupid like past impressions screw it up.” He digs into the pan for the last piece of blessed, nut-free brownie and savours it.

Coulson is right. They’re both going to get fat and lazy if they keep this up. Holiday is going to have to end sometime. He just... needs to feel like he knows where they’re headed when it does.

“I’m going inside,” Clint says quietly. He tucks his spoon away and puts the lid back on, leaves the empty mugs for Coulson. “I’m going upstairs to shower and get the stink of the Council off my skin. Also, the rest of this bark... and, yeah, pretty sure that’s deer shit,” he adds, looking down at his knees.

Or should it be scat? Deer apples? Possibly that explains the expression on Tasha’s face when he’d hugged her - prior to takeoff but after she’d _accidentally_ kneed Chandler in the balls. But now the Council is someone else’s problem, and he and Coulson are alone again, stumbling around in the mess they’ve made together.

Clint takes a slow breath and says, “I’m hoping you’ll come up when you’re ready. And maybe we can... talk.”

Coulson’s lips almost twitch and Clint knocks his shoulder gently with his leg as he goes past, “Not a euphemism, asshole. We should try that whole thing where we don’t shout at each other.”

He pads quietly over to the door, not getting a reply and not expecting one, but he keeps his eyes and ears peeled anyway, and that’s how he knows that Coulson drops his head, scrubs his hands over his hair in silence, and then, just before the door closes, lifts his head and lets out a long, slow breath as he stares through the trees to where the setting sun is painting colours on the lake.

 


	25. Stripped

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys, thanks for sticking with me. We're very near the end (3 or 4 chapters I think?), and you guys are going to *really* enjoy the next chapter, I predict!  
> no pressure on myself, or anything...

 

 

 

“So...” Coulson glances around the room.

“Why don’t you take a shower,” Clint suggests. He’s not sure about Coulson, but personally, he’s already half-panicked at the thought of cold-bloodedly ‘having a talk’ about their _feelings_. How the fuck do women _do_ this stuff? But he knows one thing - he’s much less likely to run if they’re both curled up in bed, in the near-dark, half-naked.

Coulson just nods and disappears into the bathroom. Clint doesn’t refrain from watching that fine ass as it crosses the room. He’s a renaissance man, fuckers, he can be sensitive _and_ horny at the same time.

He turns away when the door closes and puts himself through his usual shoulder-stretches, checking the low-level aches he’s carried almost every day since he hit his twenties. His wrists feel good... maybe Stark’s new bow has changed something for the better? He should mention it to MiniJarvis to pass along, knowing Stark, he’s already working on the Mark2 version of the bow by now.

Then he turns off the overhead light, leaving just one lamp burning in the corner, and slides under the covers. Waiting.

When Coulson emerges, stripped down to boxers, he doesn’t hesitate, just climbs straight into the bed and turns on his side, facing Clint, who smiles. They have a side of the bed each. This position, mirroring each other, it’s totally gonna be a thing for them, he can tell. It’s that tiny glimpse of the future that gives him the guts to start.

“I was thinking, what if we took turns?”

Coulson nods. “This is – to say the difficult stuff, you mean?”

Clint nods back, tries for a small smile. He flicks back to the memory of Coulson’s voice cracking downstairs as he said _I was gone and you were fine_.

“I wasn’t fine. It’s – I need you to know that. I was putting every piece of energy I had into faking that I was fine, but I was _not okay_. It was the deepest undercover I’ve ever been.”

He watches Coulson absorb that, the tiny nod of acknowledgement.

“Barney fucked me up,” Clint says simply. “And then, y’know. Trickshot, the whole mess made it worse. I know you’ve read my file, and I know that you and Tasha and all the shrinks over the years have told me how much of it was his, _their_ issues, not anything wrong with me, but.”

“You still don’t believe it.”

“I want to?” he manages. “And I mean, I can see, intellectually, that a kid, a teenager can’t be totally responsible for some of the stuff they pulled, but I still feel...” he swallows, looks Coulson in the eye. “I still feel,” he finally says.

“Feel what?”

He takes a long breath. “Unworthy, I guess? Or... like the shooting is the only thing people will want me for, and once that goes...”

He can _feel_ Coulson struggling with this, and so he reaches out and grips his wrist. “It’s not anything you’ve failed to do. And Del Rey is helping with this, a lot, actually. I’m learning that my reactions aren’t always healthy, and that sometimes my reactions _are_ healthy, it’s the judgement I put on myself for _having_ that reaction that fucks things up. Like, thinking I was weak because being blinded had me panicked. I can _see_ that was insane, but it’ll take time for me to _feel_ it.”

Coulson nods slowly. Then, “To me, you are extraordinary,” he says simply. It comes out so easily, Clint nearly chokes. “Not the marksmanship, but _you_. Your smartass remarks and your loyalty and your- well.” He smiles faintly. “You saw the list.”

Clint grins at that one, turns his arm slowly so his wrist runs along Coulson’s hand, his inner forearm, then outer coming into view. “I vaguely recall,” he says, and the other man snorts softly, strokes the skin with his fingertips. The moments slip by.

“I hid my grief like that because the work was all I had left,” Clint finally says, voice raw, because he knows he hasn’t made it clear. “Hiding it was the only thing that kept me going. If they’d taken me off active duty-” and then he stops, because. Well. Coulson probably knows the kind of stupid stuff Clint would have done. The end that would have led to. He’s seen the crazy stuff Clint did just to avoid being medically benched for a few days.

Coulson lets out a long, slow breath and nods. Then he moistens his lips – a nervous tell Clint has very rarely seen.

“I didn’t make any decisions about work because you don’t have a fixed address,” Coulson says. Clint swallows hard. It’s such a simple statement, but it’s not simple at all.

“I wasn’t about to make any kind of commitment that might draw me away from you. Not until you told me to leave. I don’t care about a job, I don’t care about a mission. You’re all the purpose I need right now, and believe me, I know what I’m talking about. I had months without you to understand just how empty it all was.”

Clint closes his eyes as the silence stretches out. His turn.

“A certain colour of blue kind of freaks me out now,” he says.

Coulson doesn’t move.

“I’m really relieved your eyes are green.” That prompts a faint smile. Clint takes a breath and adds, “The whole time I was in custody on the ‘carrier I couldn’t sleep. I, uh, started hallucinating everything was blue, and hid myself in the ductwork. Turns out I _could_ sleep if I was trapped.” He shrugs and rolls his eyes at his own fucked-up-ness. “When I got to the Tower I spent every night in the vents so the team wouldn’t figure it out.”

“I had difficulty eating.” Coulson eyes stay fixed on their hands. “I just couldn’t. My throat - closed up. It’s why the Director started insisting we meet in a restaurant, so he could bully me into eating something...”

Clint bites his lip.

“The first two shrinks kept asking me about you.” Coulson hand spasms around his and he musters up a weak smile. “Turns out I’m pretty good at misdirection. Del Rey, on the other hand, never once brought up your name. Turns out _she’s_ pretty fucking awesome at letting me dig my own grave. Months of twice-weekly sessions and never-” Clint shrugs. “She saw right through me.”

“But you still can’t say it,” Coulson says softly and Clint freezes. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

Clint squeezes the other man’s hand, hard, and closes his eyes. “Don’t-” he pleads.

“You haven’t called me by my name once since I got back. Not Coulson, not Phil. The closest we’ve gotten is... _sir_.”

“I can’t say it at all,” he gasps out. “I can’t. I can’t I fucking _can’t_ -”

“Ssh, _sh_ ,” Coulson scoots closer, cups Clint’s face with his free hand.

“It’s like I’m going to break all the way open,” he chokes, “it just, it gets stuck there and I can’t-”

“Stop, Clint, stop, it’s okay, ssh.”

Only when he’s all wrapped up in Coulson’s arms, the scent of him everywhere and that calm, ( _not_ calm) tone in his ears does he manage to shut up, just shuddering instead.

“I had a realization this morning,” Clint says into Coulson’s chest. “When I had your dick in my mouth.”

Coulson huffs out a soft laugh and shakes his head.

“I don’t even, inside my head I mean, even there I’m still using your last name, like I would in the field, or at work, talking about you in a debrief. How insane is that? That I’ve shared orgasms with you and I still can’t even cross that line inside my own _head_.”

“We all do it,” Coulson says. “Haven’t you noticed the way Stark calls Captain Rogers _Cap?_ They don’t know each other well enough to be Steve and Tony, but Stark is too much of an egotist to conform and use either Rogers or Captain America. He’s made his own name, something that fits halfway between. Captain Rogers, on the other hand, is bound by old-fashioned manners and has a lot less to prove, so once they were no longer strangers or enemies, he switched, for the most part, to Tony.”

This long, meandering anecdote is mostly talking so that Clint will be soothed, he’s well aware. The kicker is, even though he’s aware of the strategy behind it? It’s working.

His breathing evens out eventually, and he waits.

“I don’t... cope well with being surprised from behind these days,” Coulson says reluctantly. “I almost caved in my physical therapist’s windpipe on my third day in rehab.”

Clint whistled, “Holy shit, I hope you bought the guy a fruit basket.”

Coulson grimaces.

“And I have – sometimes, I have. Panic attacks,” Coulson says, and makes a face Clint is beginning to recognize, one that is self-mocking and disappointed.

“You don’t think dying and being revived three times deserves some panic?” Clint asks softly.

Coulson blinks at him. “You read my file.”

Clint’s brows lift. “Not the point I was making.”

Coulson bats that away. “When.”

He shrugs. “Before I left. I asked Jarvis. He seems to have taken a liking to me.” He hesitates, then says, “I just wondered how much of it had been a lie. Were you even injured at all-”

Coulson swallows hard, _“Yes,”_ he says harshly, “Yes I really was and I wasn’t able to-”

“Ssh,” Clint soothes, cursing his big mouth, “Sshh, I know, it’s okay. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it.”

“I wouldn’t have just – not-”

“Ssh, sstop, it’s okay. I know that, I do.”

“But you’re still angry, and you still doubt me,” Coulson whispers. “What if you keep on being angry?”

“I won’t,” Clint vows. Then he sighs, more pragmatically, and shrugs, “I can’t. Not if I want the good stuff, too. Their eyes lock, and he says, “And I do. I really, really do. I want all the good stuff you can give me. That we can give each other,” he adds, because Coulson needs to know this isn’t a one-way street, and Clint hasn’t exactly said that clearly yet.

 


	26. Known

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nearly there, guys. Two more chapters, I think?  
> And, ahem, please enjoy. You've all been waiting a while for this, I think.

 

 

Coulson wakes up horny. Apparently.

Clint has _no_ complaints about this.

He’s spread out on his back on the bed, sheets kicked off, bright moonlight outside and the lamp still glowing in the corner. Hungry hands and a curious mouth are roaming his entire body while Clint pretty much just moans and clutches at whatever parts of Coulson he can reach.

A supple shoulder – close-cropped hair – a warm mouth that draws his fingers inside and suck. Clint hisses in a breath and his hips jerk on automatic. Then he has a low, satisfied laugh to add to his list of sensory input.

“ _Mmm,”_ Clint manages in reply, tries a whole-body slide just for kicks. He grins when that earns him a sharp gust of breath over his nipple and a firm grip on his ass. Coulson is hard against his thigh, and Clint moves his leg lazily, by way of encouragement.

“Oh, we’ll get there,” Coulson promises, low and dark.

Clint twitches at the sound of that, a tone that’s utterly new in a voice that’s so very, very familiar.

“Promise?”

Coulson’s hands tighten hard enough to bruise for a half-second, and then he’s pressing a slick finger into Clint’s ass without hesitation. Clint gasps, presses his head back into the pillow and soaks up the sensation. No momentary pause to go searching for lube, or fumble with the cap. Maybe Coulson got ready before he kissed Clint awake, maybe he’s just some sort of sex-ninja with great attention to detail. Clint grins up at the ceiling, fucking _delighted_ with his life.

“Efficiency,” he says aloud, over a bubble of laughter. “ _Highly_ recommended in bed.”

Coulson hesitates for one half-second and then Clint feels his mouth stretch into a smile against his hipbone. “Next time you can show me that much-vaunted creativity.”

“Oh, baby, you know it,” Clint manages. “I’ll creative the _hell_ out of- _mergh_.”

He loses the rest of that sentence in a sharp gasp as Coulson sucks Clint’s cock into his mouth.

_“Fuck,”_ he manages instead, barely cognisant of the second finger sliding in. “Fucking _fuck_ , that feels good.”

Coulson just hums in response, the fucker, and Clint moans, shuts his eyes and clenches his hands. Holy _shit_. This is being handled, with a difference. And he really maybe needs to stop letting his mind wander toward work. It might be amusing for Clint, but he has a feeling there’s concern there that Coulson won’t lose for a good long while, about relationships and power and abuse.

Though he seems to have wrestled those concerns to ground for now, what with him being three fingers deep in Clint’s ass and tonguing the slit of his cock while Clint rocks back, then forward, torn and aroused and well on the way to pleading.

“Ssh,” Coulson soothes, finally sliding his mouth free. “I’m here, I’m here.”

“Yeah you’re here, _finally_ ,” Clint gasps, “and to think I was worried this might not live up to expectations.”

Coulson pauses and his fingers stop sliding. “Were you?”

“Not really, no,” Clint gasps out, “ _ohh_ you asshole don’t you dare stop-”

“Trust me, Clint,” Coulson says, looming over him. His eyes are dark with lust, face sharp with power. All at once he is completely known and utterly unfamiliar. And then he says darkly, “I have absolutely no intention of stopping until I am done with you.”

Clint’s ass spasms and he says faintly, “Oh good. Oh fuck.”

Coulson smiles, something predatory, and Clint’s stupid fucking heart skips a beat. This isn’t going to be some gentle build to tender lovemaking, thank _Christ_. This is what he craves, the reassurance of being utterly owned by this man who knows him so well, of being taken apart by loving hands until there’s nothing left but base lust and instinct.

Their eyes lock.

“Turn over, Clint,” Coulson says softly, slides his fingers out and Clint scrambles to obey.

He catches the wry lift of Coulson’s brow, knows the other man is thinking something dry and hilarious about obeying orders when he _wants to_ , but of course he doesn’t say it because he’s still worried about Agent Coulson showing up in their bed.

He grins down at the sheet – _their bed_ – and then Coulson’s hand sinks into Clint’s hair, gripping for just a second. “Shift down for me,” he says, a request, and Clint doesn’t argue, just lets Coulson turn him until he’s sideways on the bed, halfway down. An empty condom wrapper brushes his wrist as he moves – didn’t hear that happening, either, _sex ninja_. There’s a discarded pillow on the floor in front of him and he snags it, thinks with a sudden thrill there might be some muffling of ecstatic moans in his near-future. His legs slide apart on automatic.

Then Coulson is there, warm skin along his back and soft breath in his ear. “I hope you’re ready for this,” he murmurs, and every wire in Clint’s brain seems to cross for just a half-second. _Fuck_. He is halfway there already.

“ _Ngh_ ,” he manages, no words will form because that’s Coulson’s cock sliding home, sliding into Clint, smooth and steady and relentless. Clint doesn’t even have to think about it, his body opens and relaxes like it’s found a missing piece after all these years and he lets out a helpless gasp when Coulson is all the way in.

_“Christ_.”

He’s so full, so suddenly, so fucking _easily_ , it’s almost too much.

“Clint?” Coulson asks and he drags in a breath.

“S’good,” he says, and his voice cracks but he can’t fucking help it. “It’s good,” he adds, terrified Coulson will hesitate, and then the words just fall out without his permission, he’s near to fucking tears, “You just feel _so fucking good,_ ” he chokes out.

Coulson chest blankets his back, his arms crowding Clint and he loves it, surrounded and filled and pinned, utterly grounded, utterly safe.

“I know,” he says after a long moment, and his voice is none to steady, either. “Clint, I know.”

They stay like that for a moment, silent, just breathing together, communicating by skin. Then Coulson brings up one hand to fondle a nipple, listens for the shift of Clint’s breathing as he rubs and teases first one and then the other. Clint swallows, and then Coulson kisses the nape of Clint’s neck, lingering and passionate and Clint’s gut clenches.

“Up,” his lover says, uses the hand on his chest to nudge gently. “Sit up for me, Clint.”

He blinks, realizes with a start he was lost in some kind of lust-induced fog, just breathing heavily and letting Coulson pet him however he wanted, like a dream he’d had but never before acknowledged. Clint drags in a heavy breath and lets sure hands guide him, bites his lip at the way the movement shifts the cock in his ass as they both straighten.

And then he knows why Coulson moved them down the bed, because when the older man pulls at Clint’s hips until he’s seated in Coulson’s lap, Clint’s back to Coulson’s chest, he gets the full visual, the two of them entwined, reflected in the mirror mounted above the bathroom sink.

“Oh fuck,” he manages, because _look at that_.

Coulson hooks his chin over Clint’s shoulder and stares relentlessly. “Look at _you_ ,” he murmurs. He sucks a hickey into the side of Clint’s neck, lets his big hands roam all over Clint’s body while he does it and there’s no escaping it... The sight of them, the warm hands on his skin the low hum of satisfaction and the hot length in his ass, not moving, just fucking _owning_ him, an inescapable reminder of where he is and who he’s with and what’s gonna happen when Coulson is ready. When Coulson’s ready and _not_ before.

“Fuck me,” Clint gasps, because he can’t _not_ ask for it, he _needs_ it. His cock juts up proudly, red with need and wet with want.

“Oh, I will,” Coulson promises, and Clint’s ass clenches helplessly around him, gets him a growl of approval. Green eyes meet his in the mirror. “You _know_ I will.”

“Shit,” Clint gasps, _“please.”_

His one hand is clamped over Coulson’s thigh, can’t let go but he reaches up with the other and cups Coulson’s neck, tries to pull him closer, turning, mouth desperately seeking. Their mouths find each other, inelegant, more like desperate mouthing than kissing but Clint needs it so fucking bad, “Please, _please_ ,” he’s gasping, “I’ll be so good, want you so bad, please-”

“I’m gonna give you just what you need, sweetheart,” Coulson is promising into Clint’s open mouth. One of his hands rakes blunt nails down Clint’s torso and he shivers, lets out a broken cry because _fuck_ , right now it’s like he’s one big nerve ending, just pulsing with need.

“Waited so long,” Coulson is whispering into the thin skin behind Clint’s ear, _fuck_ , “dreamed of this so many times, bending you over my desk in my lunch hour you’d have to be good, to be quiet-”

Clint whimpers.

“Or sucking you off while you were on comms-”

_Fuck._

“Taking you home and not letting you leave the bed for a week-”

“I wouldn’t-” _want to_

“Rim you in the showers after a mission-”

“Oh god-”

“Jerk you off with a plug in your ass and watch you try not to come because I asked you to-”

“God, fucking god, _please_ -”

There’s a low  growl, apparently of approval because he gets a bite on one shoulder and then he’s being pressed forward, one warm hand between his shoulder blades, the other a reassuring weight at his hip.

“Waited _so long_ ,” Coulson murmurs, and his voice is thick with lust. He drags his nails down Clint’s spine and Clint moans, finds he’s panting into his forearm, he’s so far fucking gone already.

And then Coulson begins to move.

He starts out steady and so very sure of himself, a gorgeous slow rhythm that has Clint crying out “ _Yes,_ fucking _yes, god,”_ in relief.

How much he needs this.

At first he thinks it’s just an extremely good fuck, both of them moving together and then it’s like his ears tune in and he realizes with a shock that his every breath is coming in time with Coulson’s strokes. Like they’ve done this so many times Clint has learned the pattern. But that’s not it. They’re just – in tune with each other. Coulson reading his breaths and the line of his shoulders, Clint interpreting the tiny shift of the other man’s fingers and the low, soft _unh_ contained in Coulson’s breathing.

Slowly, together, they build speed, so that the sparks of every thrust are just a little closer together and Clint can feel the quiet climb of ecstasy in the back of his head, knows with a thrill of terror that this is gonna be big, fuck, _shit_ , gonna smash through him like _nothing_ -

_“Yes,”_ Coulson answers, because apparently Clint can’t control his mouth anymore either.

That one word seems to be a signal, somehow, because the pace quickens, and that’s Coulson’s hand around Clint’s dick and he grunts like he’s been punched because yeah, that’s, _oh yeah-_

“Your body is a fucking _miracle_ ,” Coulson says above him, breathless, and Clint moans because he knows now what it means when Coulson lets a profanity slip, It means he’s close and _shit_ , so is Clint.

“Please,” he chokes out, “fuck please, _please_ I need-”

Coulson drops his hand and shifts behind him, for a second Clint doesn’t know what he’s done, so lost in the haze of need but then _bam_ , he feels the other man’s foot planted on the mattress by Clint’s knee and the next thrust it’s like someone turned on the lights in his balls, his nipples, in his ass, _yeah, that’s the spot-_

“Oh fuck,” he manages, guttural and there’s a low, hungry _yeah_ from Coulson that for some reason is the final push, the final press, the final slam home.

“I’m-”

“Yeah-”

_“I’m-”_

“Yes-”

“ _Shit_ , I’m-”

_“Clint,”_ he grinds out

And the pleasure sparks out through every part of his body,

Heat and joy blaze across his skin as he cries out fiercely, throat unable to contain how good, _how fucking good_ , and it goes on and on, he’s incoherent, no words will do just the helpless convulsions as his balls empty themselves and his ass clenches down.

“Clint,” he hears the sharp cry and the hands at his hips bite deep, yanking him back onto that delicious cock and he tries to press back, get closer, climb inside, feel his lover shake to pieces behind him inside him above.

And then it’s ending and Clint becomes aware of his own hoarse gasps, animal-like. Aftershocks are coursing through him and he reaches back blindly, a familiar hand catches his like relief, like water in the desert, not alone, shared, closer, truly known, at peace, cleaned out, calm and safe and so, so sure of where he belongs.

Their fingers entwine and for a moment all is still. Clint is face down in a pillow that’s slightly damp from sweat and from – he was biting down on it at some point, he’s pretty sure. Coulson’s dick is softening in his ass, Clint’s throat is raw from some kind of primal orgasmic scream, and his chest and belly are smack in the middle of the wet spot.

Best sit-rep _ever_.

Behind him, Coulson lets out a quiet breath, not a sigh exactly, and pulls out of Clint carefully, his free hand stroking in long lines over Clint’s back and flank.

Clint actually whines like a big needy baby when Coulson shifts away and he _does not care_. About three seconds later Coulson is back, a warm length along his side and Clint musters up some forgotten reserve of energy to shift onto his side and align their bodies.

They rest together, exhausted, gross, silent and utterly content.

After a long, long time Clint finds words again.

“You weren’t lying,” Clint croaks. “You fuck like a dream, all right.”

“No dream,” Coulson murmurs. “S’ _real_. Not a dream.”

“Right,” Clint says, and his fucking heart turns over in his chest. He manages to move just enough to link their hands. It’s real. It’s _rea_ l. Coulson squeezes back, hard.

“It’s real,” Clint slurs one more time as his eyes close.

 


	27. Effort

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two more chapters after this. Thank you so much for all the comments and love, I really hope you like the resolution as much as I do.

 

 

 

Clint drifts up to consciousness slowly, sated and slightly – deliciously – sore. He breaths in and _mmmm_ \- that’s coffee, and the promise is enough to have him opening his eyes a crack.

He’s just in time to watch a familiar hand release its grip on a mug of steaming coffee perched atop the bedside table. Coulson steps away, toward the window, and by the time Clint opens his eyes properly the older man is leaning one hip on the window sill, staring out into the morning.

Clint doesn’t move, just watches for a while. It’s one hell of a nice view. Eventually, though, he registers the tension in those shoulders, the fixed stare that does not speak of relaxation or joy.

“Everything okay?” he croaks.

Coulson tilts his head and makes a noncommittal noise. He doesn’t startle, because of course he recognized that Clint was surfacing out of sleep, probably twenty minutes ago, and that’s not weird at all, how deep they are in each other’s lives.

“Hey,” Clint begins, and props himself up onto his elbows. “That doesn’t sound like everything’s okay.”

Coulson doesn’t answer, though he darts a glance toward Clint and the bed. Clint should probably wait and let the man speak but he’s already moving, gathering the sheet around him randomly to ward off the slight chill.

“Hey,” he says again, when he’s close enough to curl the length of his body into Coulson’s.

The moment he does, the older man’s body relaxes, and Clint realizes the tension wasn’t Coulson being unhappy, it was Coulson worrying about _Clint’s_ morning-after doubts.

“Tell me,” Clint says softly, nudges Coulson’s chin with his head.

He hesitates, then tilts his face down toward Clint’s. “It wasn’t... too much?”

Clint smiles and chuckles softly. “No, idiot.”

“I got kind of- _intense_.”

“Yeah you did. And it was fucking _perfect._ ”

Coulson’s arm snakes around his waist and pulls him close. “Perfect?”

“You didn’t think so?” Clint says, starting to pull away.

Coulson’s arm immediately tightens. “Oh, I did. I just-”

“Woke up early and started to worry,” Clint finishes for him, putting it all together.

There’s silence, then Coulson says quietly, “I crashed through a lot of boundaries without asking-”

“Did I seem upset or confused or out of my depth to you?” Clint breaks in.

A corner of Coulson’s mouth drags up in an almost smile. “Not to my recollection.”

“I wanted everything you gave me,” Clint says. “All of it. It was incredible.”

Coulson takes in a quick breath, nodding a little. Then he says, low and fast, “I’m scared.”

Clint blinks at him. It takes a minute to figure it out and then he says, “Of messing this up.”

“Yes.”

Clint cups his cheek. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I’m scared too.”

 

 

 

“Uh, Doc?” Clint begins. He scratches at his neck and grips the phone harder. “I’m gonna – yeah, I think I maybe need some more... intensive sessions?”

“Of course, Clint. You’re returning to New York?”

“Yeah,” he nods even though she can’t see it. “In a few days, I’d say.”

“I’ll make time in my schedule.”

“Thanks. And uh. Is it. I don’t know- um.”

She just waits.

“I’m bringing someone back with me,” he says finally.

There’s a pause, then she says cagily, like a good SHIELD employee, “Yes, your team-mate gave me to understand that you had some company while you recuperated.”

“Yeah. Couple of retirees hanging out in the woods,” he can’t resist saying. Coulson shakes his head on the other side of the room. His fond smile is a _work of freaking art_ , to Clint.

“I see.”

“I was wondering if you’d maybe be able to see both of us, at some point?” No fucking way he’s asking _do you do couples counselling_.

Another pause, then she says, “I think that’s probably a good idea. Once we’ve all met perhaps we can discuss whether this is the right long-term option, but certainly I’d be very happy to sit down with the two of you sometime soon.”

“Awesome,” he says. “Thanks.”

“No need to thank me, Clint.”

“Yeah there really is,” Clint replies. He suspects Del Rey might actually be doing his sessions in her own time, which leaves him almost crippled with guilt, but he wants the end result too bad to stop.

“No, Clint,” she says firmly, “you _don’t._ ” He blinks, glances at Coulson who drifts closer, clearly curious about what’s happening. Clint tilts the phone away from his ear a little so the older man can listen in.

He hears Del Rey take in a deep breath and then say softly, “It’s probably not a good idea for me to tell you this, but. My brother-in-law and my five year old niece were in midtown on the day of the battle. SHIELD sent out a warning to all personnel, I called my sister, who got to safety, but.”

Clint almost drops the fucking phone.

_“What?”_ He manages.

“They ended up behind the police cordon on 39th, they’re both okay,” she says, voice unsteady for the first time in _ever_ , “but I’m standing in the park right now watching Lucia blow out the candles on her sixth birthday cake because of you and the rest of the team, so.”

He hears the moment she catches herself and says, “My _goodness_ , that was unprofessional.”

He snorts and says unsteadily. “You’re not going to hear any complaints from me. But you know that whole thing with the police cordon was actually St-”

Coulson’s jolt in the ribs co-incides perfectly with Del Rey’s steely, “ _Clint_ ,” and he subsides.

“Right,” he manages. Whole-team effort, _right_. “Uh. Yeah. You’re... welcome?”

“Hm,” is all she says. “I’ll see you soon.”

 

 

THREE DAYS LATER

 

Dr Del Rey speaks into the awkward silence. “All right,” she says, “perhaps, if I might, I’ll ask some questions to get background. The two of you are now romantically involved.”

“Yep,” Clint says, all kinds of smug. Coulson nods, calm, contained.

“Although the relationship is new, I know from my previous sessions with Clint that the feelings are not.”

“Correct,” Coulson says.

Del Rey nods. “All right. Clint, can I ask, when did you first find yourself attracted to your handler.”

“Day One,” Clint says immediately. “He wasn’t my handler yet, though he was by the end of that week-” he breaks off at the open-mouthed stare Coulson is giving him. “What?”

_“Day one?”_ Coulson asks hoarsely. “Right from – from then? _All this time?”_

“Yeah,” Clint says, shrugging. “ _Bam_. You remember, or actually maybe you don’t, but the first time I saw you, you were tearing strips off Keller for not backing up Leong about something. You had this small, bland smile on your face and the guy was like, crapping himself. And that was it,” he says, more softly, shrugging again. “Gone.”

Coulson is still staring.

“Why?” Clint asks, suddenly uncomfortable. It’s dumb, because, _duh_ , Coulson has just admitted Clint is his next-of-kin on his paperwork and they are already negotiating drawer space in their respective bedrooms, but. He finds himself weirdly vulnerable after that admission. “When was it for you?”

He shakes his head slowly. “I, uh. Later,” he says.

No _shit_ , Sherlock.

Coulson is clearly still gathering his thoughts. “I- after Tommy,” he begins, then stops and glances over at the doctor, re-ordering his thoughts. “I was in a long-term relationship with another soldier while I was serving,” he explains. “It was during DADT, so we were closeted, and it was... difficult,” he finally decides, “to find time together. The relationship ended and I,” he gestures vaguely, “I made very sure never again to begin a relationship at work. I clamped down on any attraction I felt, killed it before it started.”

“So birds didn’t suddenly appear, every time I was near?” Clint asks, unable to resist.

“I registered your attractiveness, of course,” Coulson says, which is his version of _duh_. “And I- had thoughts, I suppose. But I never gave myself space to... entertain them.”

“So... Benghazi,” Clint says, putting it together. “That was the first time you let yourself get... emotional about me?”

“I was already emotional about you,” Coulson corrects. “I valued our working friendship a great deal. Probably more than was strictly professional, now that I look back,” he says with a twist of his mouth. “I was deceiving myself, I suppose. But yes, after you were shot-”

He stops, swallows. Clint and Del Rey wait.

“After that it was impossible for me to pretend you were simply a colleague or an asset or even a just a friend.”

There’s a short pause, and Clint can feel Del Rey’s gaze moving between them but he’s focused on watching the wheels turn in the other man’s head.

Then Coulson says slowly, “So... this means. You were hiding how you felt about me the whole time we’ve known one another.”

“Uh.” Clint says. “Yes?” something about the way Coulson says it makes it sound really bad.

“So even the first time we met-” he stops and says slowly, “I’ve never known you when you weren’t hiding some kind of emotional attachment.”

“Guess not.”

Clint risks a glance at Del Rey, who is watching Phil with great focus. Coulson is staring across the room like he’s travelling backward in time. After an unnecessarily long – in Clint’s opinion – silence, he gives a short, sharp shake of his head and turns his eyes back to Clint. “No wonder I couldn’t tell,” he says, and he sounds stunned. “No wonder I had no idea how much you were grieving,” he says. “I had no baseline to work from. Every supposition I made was from a false position.”

“But you do now,” Clint says unsteadily, because that sounds a fucking lot like _I never really knew you at all_. “I’m not hiding anything now.”

Coulson blinks at him. Once, twice. Then he tries for a slow smile and says, “Yes. I suppose so.” He takes a slow breath and turns his attention back to Dr Del Rey.

Clint has the feeling that issue isn’t quite put to rest just yet, but it’ll do for now.

 

 

THREE WEEKS LATER

 

“Because you are _quantifiably_ exceptional,” Coulson cries and very nearly waves his arms to emphasise his point. “Clint, you’re part of a team of superheroes, and you hold so many records in marksmanship the services politely asked you not to take part in any more competitions. The USAMU guys say _you totally Bartoned that_ when someone beats the curve at Fort Benning.”

“They do _not_ ,” Clint says, horrified.

_“Totally,”_ Phil shoots back, because he’s a sarcastic asshole.

“Nevertheless,” Clint blusters, recovering, “you’re a former Ranger who is currently being headhunted by _six_ different federal agencies and a few international ones,” he raises a stern eyebrow that says _yeah don’t think I didn’t hear about INTERPOL, buddy_ , “so how the _hell_ can you possibly claim to be some boring, middle of the road pencil-pusher?”

“I’m not saying that, Clint,” Phil replies, striving for calm. “I’m just saying that of the two of us, you’re the one most likely to end up in the spotlight, and I’m okay with that, as long as you can understand I will, some of the time, probably have insecurities about the attention you get.”

“Okay, _Agent Kettle_ ,” Clint says, crossing his arms. He doesn’t miss the amused twitch of Del Rey’s mouth. “Because I haven’t forgotten what happened at the coffee shop last week, with your bunch of FBI groupies, or that fucking blonde receptionist at the Tower.”

Turns out, Clint has a jealous streak. He’s not proud of it, but that little blonde is going to find all her low-fat lunch options are suddenly reeking with fat if she doesn’t dial back the cleavage displays.

Coulson blinks, nods, then says, “I.” He blinks some more. A tiny curl appears at the corner of his mouth, Clint fucking _loves_ that little curl of unwilling amusement. “All right.”

 

 

THREE MINUTES LATER

 

“Because you’re sexy,” Coulson points out, exasperated, “You’re young and beautiful. It’s perfectly reasonable for a balding, middle-aged-”

_“Beautiful?”_ Clint is saying. “Did you just- _I’m beautiful?”_ He crawls across the couch and deposits himself in Coulson’s lap, despite the older man’s squirming and disapproving glare.

“I’m beautiful?” He says very softly.

“You know that,” Coulson mutters. “Now get off my lap, this is- not appropriate.”

“But I like it here,” Clint pouts. He’s not sure where exactly he’s getting the guts to do this in front of Del Rey but he’s just so _happy_ lately. Giddy with it. Coulson thinks he’s fucking _beautiful_.

“Don’t make me use the wristlock on you again,” Coulson warns, brows up.

“I’m starting to like it,” Clint says, low. Coulson manages not to twitch as he manhandles Clint out of his lap and back onto the sofa.

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed,” he murmurs back, and smooths down his tie. “My apologies, doctor,” he says in a normal voice, and _ohh_ , Clint is going to bind his fucking hands with that tie when they get home and blow Coulson’s fucking _mind_.

Del Rey is biting back a smile as she stares down at her notes.

 

 

 

THREE APPOINTMENTS LATER

 

“Go on,” Clint nudges his knee and waggles his eyebrows. “Mister Full Disclosure, go ahead and tell the doc what you did at work yesterday.”

Phil sighs. He’d known this was going to happen. “There was an... incident at work,” he begins, “I had to uh. Get physical with an member of the working party.”

“He schooled some punk-ass Homeland Security schmuck in front of the _entire division_ ,” Clint crows, and Phil sighs again. “Inter-agency co-operate _that,_ asshole.”

“There are- well, some of the committee are taking issues with my position as lead,” he says, shrugging. He doesn’t mention that the asshat in question is also having a field day with various _homo_ slurs, though he’s careful about it and never does it in front of witnesses. It’s the main reason why Phil let it play out the way it did. Engaging with the guy would do more harm than good. This way, the guy loses face and learns a valuable lesson at the same time.

He hesitates, then says, “It’s uh, become common knowledge that- the injury I received on the Helicarrier was severe, and has created some... triggers.”

Clint’s hands have tensed, he’s never going to be able to hear about Loki or the sceptre without some reaction, but Phil just continues. Clint wouldn’t thank him for making a big deal of it. He watches Del Rey watch their interaction and tries not to feel too exposed.

“At any rate, Major Neal evidently felt he could exploit this weakness to his own advantage.”

Phil’s still not sure what the guy was hoping to achieve. Public humiliation, probably. Or possibly he was going to push so far as to try and scare/embarrass Phil into resigning.

“What did he do?” Del Rey asks, and Phil realizes with a start that he’s been woolgathering.

“He tried to... accidentally jump me from behind,” he says simply. “I think he thought he would trigger some sort of flashback, or a post-traumatic reaction of some kind. Unfortunately for him he’s about as subtle as a brick.”

Clint’s mouth curves at that.

“You were expecting an attack?” Del Rey asks, frowning a little.

“I knew he would try _something_ ,” Phil corrects, “I wasn’t sure it would be physical. He’s also the type for a clumsy insult to provoke a reaction. At any rate, I had more than enough warning when he made his attempt.”

“What did you do?” she asks, and for the first time she seems genuinely curious, rather than clinically interested.

Clint starts to laugh. “Go on,” he says, and nudges Phil with one shoulder. “Tell her, Deadeye.”

Phil hesitates, then says, “Four of us were getting into a car, loading our bags into the trunk. He’s lucky I saw his reflection in the paintwork.” Luckier still that Phil’s worst, knee-jerk reactions had mostly passed with time and determined training.

He shrugs, unrepentant. “He tried to clip me with his briefcase and I deflected it. Forcefully.”

“Bounced it into his face and knocked out his _two front teeth_ ,” Clint corrects with glee.

Phil shakes his head, fighting a smile.

Dr Del Rey cocks an eyebrow at Clint, who is unphazed by her apparent disapproval. “Hey, if this homophobic douchebag thinks it’s okay to try to use Phil’s fucking battle-scars against him, two front teeth is the very _least_ he’s gonna lose. He’s lucky he didn’t try anything in front of me. I had plans to fuck his shit _up_. I was gonna get _Stark_ to assist.”

Phil is staring at him, shocked. “How did you know he was-”

Clint scoffed. “You think I didn’t make it my business to find out who it was winding you up? I’ve seen you negotiate with a group made up of Bosnians, Serbs _and_ Croatians and come out of it more relaxed than the days you meet with those assholes.”

Phil surveys him with pleased surprise. “I. That’s-”

A slow smile spreads across Clint’s face. “I know. Romantic, right?”

 

 


	28. Breakthrough

 

THREE MONTHS LATER

 

“But it can’t always be that way, Clint,” Coulson says tightly. “It has to be from both of us or there’s no point, it’s not a relationship!”

“Perhaps I could try phrasing it differently,” Del Rey interposes, and Coulson subsides against the couch, lets out a frustrated breath.

She clasps her hands together and turns her gaze to the right. “Clint, do you think there are times when putting yourself first, when seeing to your own needs is also, in the long-term, a way of putting Agent Coulson first and seeing to _his_ needs?”

Clint hesitates. Turns that over in his head. “You mean,” he begins. “Hm, okay. So, it’s like, sometimes putting myself last is hurting ‘Us’?” He glances at Coulson, sees the tight line of his mouth relax just slightly. “So... sometimes I have to put myself first in order to put _us_ first.”

“Actually, that’s an excellent way of putting it,” Del Rey says, and leans back again, picks up her notepad. “Though I would encourage you to _also_ consider that perhaps you putting your own needs first is worth doing simply because you are entitled to want things, and what’s more, entitled to have them.” He can read her much more easily now. She’s counting that as a breakthrough.

 _Would you look at me_ , Clint thinks. _I’m in therapy and I’m Making Progress._ He grins down at his hands, bemused.

 

 

 

“Hi,” Clint says, feeling more awkward than he can remember feeling in a very long time. “I uh, heard you do archery lessons here?”

“That’s right,” the tall dude says, hefting two huge bags of a type Clint recognizes very well.

“Yeah, so, I wondered if you uh, needed any volunteers...” Clint trails off like a weirdo. Still, this would have been even weirder if he’d called first.

The guy laughs and grunts as he heaves the bags onto a bench, “Yeah, man we can always use another pair of hands. You’re a bowman?”

“Yeah, I-”

“I mean, there’s safety stuff you’d have to get checked on, and a, um, background check for working with k-” he begins, straightens and finally turns to actually face Clint. “Holy _fucking SHIT_ ,” the guy shouts, eyes wide in shock as he staggers back. Then he flushes deeply, “Uh, I mean, sorry but um, are you- you’re... Hawkeye, right? The Avengers guy? That was you hanging off the Statue of Liberty last week?”

“Uh, yeah,” Clint says sheepish. He rubs a hand over his hair, grips his nape. “That’s uh, me all right.”

“Holy shit,” the guy says again, very quietly. “I mean, um. Wow. This is, um, totally amazing, you really, you’re here to um, help us out - _here?”_ he gestures to the peeling paint on the old shed, the well-worn benches and picnic tables.

“Yeah,” Clint says, shrugging. “Why not? I trained in a hell of a lot crappier environment than this.”

“Yeah,” the guy says faintly, “I’ve um, heard that. It’s true then? You learned in the circus?”

Clint grins more naturally now. “Yep.”

“Huh, wow, oh I’m um, Jim, by the way,” he says, flushing again and shoving out a meaty hand.

“Clint.”

“Clint,” he says to himself. “So. You’re really gonna, oh shit, man, the kids are going to _lose it_. And I have gotta stop swearing before they get here,” he murmurs.

Clint grins and shakes his head. “You need a hand setting up?”

Jim nods. “Yeah, uh, I’ve got an assistant coach, she’ll be along sooner or later, but uh-”

“How about if I just check the equipment while you do whatever it is you do,” Clint offers, waving at the clipboard and thick folder tucked under Jim’s arm, and he nods dumbly in agreement.

Clint works through setting out the bows, it’s not a bad collection, he’s glad to see two left-handed bows among the set. It’s fairly well-worn equipment – two conspicuously new recurves – but yeah, again, nothing too different from what he learned on. A lot of it’s way better, actually. Some of it might even be a real archer’s cast-offs, maybe an ex-Olympic hometown hero or something.

After about three minutes of strained silence Clint says without looking, “Just go ahead and ask. I really doubt it’s any dumber than what some of the reporters have asked, and if I don’t want to answer I won’t storm off or anything, I just won’t answer.”

Jim jumps, coughs, and then says, “Sorry. I just. It’s so weird you’re here, man. Do you have any idea what you’ve done to our numbers in the past year? Between you and _The Hunger Games_ , we actually got a grant this year.”

“That where these came from?” Clint asks, and taps the two new bows.

“Yep.”

He shakes his head, purses his lips, then shrugs and laugh. “Well. That’s... good, I guess. Weird, but good.”

“Hey, uh,” Jim dares. “I saw that shot of you falling off a building while shooting.”

“Yeah,” Clint says, shaking his head. _That_ one had turned up recently in some collective online collection to commemorate the anniversary of the battle. It had prompted a fair bit of ribbing from the team, and some low-level horror from Clint’s nearest and dearest.

At the reminder his eyes flick toward the edge of the park, the figure still standing patiently at the treeline, phone locked at his ear. The Mayor’s office are this week’s obstructive assholes. Clint doesn’t know how Coulson does it, trying to wrangle all the inter-juristictional posturing without completely losing his shit every other day.

“Your form was for shit,” Jim dares, flapping his elbow out to the side, and Clint shakes his head, grinning. Okay. That’s his favourite reaction so far.

“Well, believe it or not they won’t let me practise that shot,” he tosses back. “I’ll try to do better next time I’m falling twenty stories without a safety net.”

Jim nods and makes a face like, _fair enough_. They’re silent for a minute,

“So... why Brooklyn?” he asks, and Clint glances sideways at him, trying to read the real question there. Jim catches the look and laughs, biting his lip, then bursts out, “The Manhattan club is gonna be _so pissed_ when they hear-”

Clint snickers too, laying the bare shafts out in a line. “Yeah. Well. I uh.” He hesitates, then thinks, _fuck it_ , and says, “My boyfriend thought I might enjoy it...”

“Boyfriend, huh?” Jim says, kind of blankly, and Clint starts to stiffen as the guy works through a few blinks, says, “Huh. _Huh_. Okay.” There’s a moment’s hesitation, then he refocuses on Clint’s face and says with a sudden grin, “Well, your boyfriend is a _genius_ , in my opinion.”

Clint grins back, heart slowing. And glances to his left again, where Phil has turned and is watching him now, still stuck on the phone. Almost in the same moment they raise their hands in a swift, silent acknowledgement, and drop them again. Tasha might have a point, maybe they could use some time apart every now and then. He’ll consider it.

 “Oh, he is. Yeah, so, I dunno, I just couldn’t see myself rolling up to some country club situation,” he shrugs and digs in the bag for the strings and blunts. “Not really my scene. And anyway we have this friend who’s kinda _Brooklyn or_ _die_ , y’know, so-”

“Ah-huh. Well, your friend’s is _also_ -” Then he blinks and says, “Holy _shit_ youmean _CAPTAINAMERICA_ -”

Clint is still laughing fifteen minutes later when the kids start arriving.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Jim" in this chapter is a sly reference to Jim MacQuarrie who evaluated Jeremy Renner's archery form in this blog post http://www.wired.com/geekdad/2012/03/avengers-hawkeye-archery/  
> I have no idea if he has a beard. Also, apologies if my archery stuff is totally inaccurate. It's very possible, one might even say likely.
> 
> one chapter to go!


	29. A Perfect End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG I am so, so nervous about this chapter. (deep breath)
> 
> anyway, I just want to clarify that the chapter title is in reference to an archery term, *not* an appraisal of my own story!
> 
> thanks so much to all the readers and esp commenters

 

 

It’s a glorious day. The Osborne Garden is in full bloom, bursting to life all around them. The sun is shining, birds are fucking singing their little hearts out in the trees, and the last arrival is very, _very_ late.

“Shit, I am so, _so_ sorry. They closed down the bridge-” and then Zeke shakes his head, cuts himself off. “Nevermind. Carry on.” _So sorry_ , he mouths at Clint again, grimacing. He looks _mortified_. More so when he catches Steve’s eye. Cap’s expression is still only halfway through turning from mildly disapproving to unwillingly amused at Zeke’s embarrassment.

Clint grins, wide and bright, as Tasha gives a low puff of amusement, her shoulder brushing his. In the front row, Tony is murmuring something in Pepper’s ear that has her choking, face pink behind her hand. Thor and Jane, Darcy and Selvig are watching the scene with polite confusion. Despite this, Darcy is still somehow managing to keep her impressive cleavage pointed in Bruce’s direction. Clint gives her points for focus.

Zeke sinks down into the empty chair beside Sitwell’s date, behind Hill and her date, and covers his bright red face with one huge hand. From the other end of the row, Dr Del Rey surveys the newcomer with interest, then her eyes go wide for a second as she makes the connection. She shoots a look at Clint before she catches herself and schools her expression again.

Clint has to choke down a laugh, then turns back, shoulders relaxed even under the hand-tailored jacket. On his right, Phil runs his hand down his amethyst-coloured tie, the only sign of nerves he’s shown all day, and takes Clint’s hand in his again. Fury looks on from just past Phil’s right shoulder, face impassive as usual. He’s wearing his very best eyepatch. Clint’s sure Phil appreciates the effort.

“Now,” Bruce begins again, stoic as only Bruce can be. “Where were we?”

Clint half-turns, meets the gaze of the man standing opposite him. He knows _exactly_ where they were.

He smiles, wide-open with joy, and proud of it.

“I, Clint Francis Barton,” he says, voice clear and steady, “take you, Philip James Coulson...”

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Conversations With The Betrayed](https://archiveofourown.org/works/968687) by [eeyore9990](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eeyore9990/pseuds/eeyore9990), [unpossible](https://archiveofourown.org/users/unpossible/pseuds/unpossible)
  * [Podfic of "What the Deep Heart Means"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1133298) by [DaltonG](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaltonG/pseuds/DaltonG)




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